


Not Finding North

by onlymostlybored



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, John and Sherlock being idiots about feelings, M/M, Piratelock, Sherlock being a dick, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everyone being BAMFs, that's later resolved, this is pretty much the plot of Pirates with the characters of Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlymostlybored/pseuds/onlymostlybored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like it says in the tags, this is the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean with the characters of Sherlock (BBC). There will, of course, be minor shifts in plot and characterization, because where would be the fun in having everything happen in exactly the same way? It will be long, with infrequent updates, so you have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She had learned long ago that purpose was the one thing that cut off good actors before they could become great ones. If you made people believe you had a reason to be wherever you were, doing whatever you were doing, they would leap at the chance to believe you. All you had to provide them was plausible proof."
> 
> Characters are introduced, the stage is set, and this very long work begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it says in the tags, this work is the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean with the characters of BBC Sherlock. Obviously not everything will match up and I'll be taking liberties with the story as I need to, but it will be heavily based on both.
> 
> This bad boy is going to be long, by my estimate 30 chapters or more. The updates will be infrequent since I've got a terribly busy schedule but I'm devoted to writing down what I've got planned out in my head. 
> 
> My first fan fiction, so please be gentle with the comments! I'm also writing un-beta'd so feel free to mention grammar errors since they are the bane of my existence and I'd be glad to fix them. 
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

“The crew had barely a moment’s notice before the ship was overtaken by a suffocating bank of fog. The mist cocooned its victims so completely it was as if the vessel had been swallowed by a lazily malevolent beast that oozed over everything in its path.” Mary read what she had scribbled in her journal and re-inked her pen before viciously scrawling across the page until her words were crossed through. Fanciful and overdramatic, her governess would have said. Mary didn’t need her tutor there to tell her that it was a bad sign once she started personifying fog, of all things. But after a week confined to her cabin and three days with nothing but white outside the porthole window Mary was running out of things to do besides over-exaggerate the weather.

The fact that she had stooped to writing her varied thoughts down in a journal was evidence enough of how low her spirits had sunk. She had started her chronicles in a rather eclectic way and they hadn’t improved since: “The Tales of Mary Morstan: a record of my involuntary imprisonment and subsequent death from extreme ennui.” She was aware that her writing left much to be desired, but after playing all the solitary games of cards and sketching every nook and cranny of her cabin she had truly run out of things to entertain her. What nagged at her thoughts like a constant itch was that her “imprisonment” stemmed from nothing more than an overprotective father and an obedient daughter. Well, she thought truthfully, to his knowledge she was obedient. 

Her trip had started with a modicum of freedom to roam below deck but that adventuring soon ran its course when her father had caught her listening to stories among the sailors. Wonderful tales they were too; full of superstitious sightings and mythological monsters. They were all told with wide-eyed honesty and accompanied by sarcastic winks so that listeners would have difficulty believing, and yet would have trouble discounting the tales entirely. If only she could write as well as they could spin stories, then she would have a career in the making.

Her father could care less about Mary’s interest in tall tales, and he had said as much as he pulled her away from the group of men at the galley table and hurried her back towards the guest quarters of the ship. “For Heaven’s sake Mary, you cannot go gallivanting about this ship. You must maintain some sense of propriety,” he had said brusquely as they rushed past boxes of supplies towards the ladder up to the living quarters.

Mary wanted to curse him, father or not. Of course she knew about propriety, it was all that had been drummed into her head through her childhood. She knew the rules and restrictions that came with her position in society, or rather her father’s position. Just because she knew these things did not mean that she was going to follow them. But she did know a thing or two about dispelling conflict, so she meekly absorbed his ranting while keeping a calm and mildly apologetic mask on her face. 

They stopped abruptly in front of her father’s quarters before Governor Morstan unlocked the door and ushered Mary inside. Her father had been granted a slightly larger cabin than hers due to his status and financial support of the voyage, but it was still close quarters. Mary smiled inwardly as she thought of her high class father adjusting to the relatively low class conditions. Her father, however, was not done with his nagging and continued on while shutting the door behind them.

“While I would like nothing more than for you to find interest in searching for a suitor I would prefer you would wait to choose from more … suitable men,” he said as he wrinkled his nose. No doubt he was envisioning a future son-in-law who only made port every few months and subsisted on pickled herring. 

Mary cut off that train of thought quickly, but with the respect. “Father, you know I would never choose someone who you could not approve of.” ‘But if I fell in love with someone you didn’t care for I wouldn’t give a damn about your opinion anyway,’ she finished silently in her head. She bowed her head slightly to help maintain her composure. She hated when he acted like this; a combination of overprotective father and appearance-focused governor. He lived by society’s expectations and therefore so did she. And she hated it.

Her father moved closer and gently lifted her chin so she was looking in his eyes. She could see reflected there his anger, not quite yet dispelled from her apology, and annoyance at the slight to his appearance of authority aboard the ship. No doubt the captains and officers would already be gossiping about his lack of control over his own daughter, or, at least, that would be what he was thinking they would say. Mary doubted they would actually waste time talking about this when they had more important things to do like run the ship, but this train of thought disintegrated when she recognized the emotion partially hidden in the creases at the corner of her father’s eyes and drawn brow. 

Governor Morstan abruptly dropped his hand and took a step or two back, looking towards his own porthole view. Mary was left slightly flustered. She had seen for a moment the depth of worry in her father’s face, and was shocked that it was sincere and entirely for her. She was so used to being seen as something her father had to maintain and protect for his own sake that she often discounted that her father did care for her, in his own way. 

After a deep breath the soon-to-be-Governor went on quietly and with more composure. “Mary. I know you are not a child anymore. You are your own person, but that does not mean that your actions only have consequences on yourself. You must stop this foolishness and learn to act as you have been taught. Even if you are acting it out without sincerity. Do you understand?” 

He had turned back so he was staring into her eyes again, looking more tired than she had seen him since she was a little girl. It seemed that she had not fooled him so completely if he knew she was indeed acting out all the pomp and circumstance. She briefly wondered if she was not the only person in the room who felt restricted by societal conventions; whether her father had ever entertained outlandish ideas of running off as she had.

It was useless to speculate on such things, but she could not ignore the connection she felt at that moment with her oft distant father. She walked up to him and hugged him tightly around the middle, like she used to when she was young. She closed her eyes and felt her father’s arms wrap hesitantly around her shoulders. 

“I understand Papa.” She said, quietly and sincerely, and she felt his grip tighten a bit more. 

Of course, their moment didn’t last long. Her father had his duties to perform, although his ‘duties’ boiled down to shadowing the officers and suggesting changes to be made that were ignored by the experienced on the ship. Before he left he had made her promise to stay in her quarters for the remainder of the voyage unless escorted, and although her entire being rejected such a proposal she couldn’t bear to see her father’s countenance change once again to the distant and judgmental Governor. So she had dutifully promised to remain in her cabin and not venture out until they made port.

She paced the length of her cabin, rubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Lord, but she was bored. She had thought confinement would be dull, but nothing could have prepared her for the slow aching passage of time that made its presence obvious in the interludes between meals delivered to her door. Even her porthole, the only part of her room that offered any variety of change, had been blank; wiped clean of interest by the monotonous fog. 

She glared at her journal, thrown unceremoniously onto her uncomfortable cot. She couldn’t even work up enough inspiration to write anything in the book, or at least anything worthy of note. Even the sailors onboard could conjure better tales than her. She was sure they never would have tried to anthropomorphize the weather. What she needed was to get out of this godforsaken cabin before her brain completely atrophied. 

She sat carefully on the edge of her bed, elbows on knees and head balancing on her folded hands. What she should be doing was swoon dramatically onto a conveniently placed sofa and wait for some handsome gentleman to revive her, preferably with a kiss. But Mary had never put much stock in sitting around and waiting; she was a woman of action. Instead, she thought deeply; staring at the opposite wall and contemplating escape plans. 

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before a devious smile flitted across Mary’s face. Her plan had been right there in front of her nose, or rather, inside her trunk. This would be wonderfully easy.

~~~~~~ 

Mary gave herself another cursory glance in her small pocket mirror to make sure she was presentable. After all, she thought with a smile, first appearances are important; even more so in this particular case. She moved quickly to her door and, after exiting, locked it swiftly behind her. Anyone seen lingering in the passenger’s quarters would be viewed with suspicion except, of course, herself and her father. It would be a horrible thing to end her adventure so prematurely, she thought, as she took long but unhurried strides toward the ladder leading to the deck. 

It was a good thing this corridor was empty of crew as Mary had yet to acclimate to her disguise. True, her costume and persona had taken years of perfecting, but it had also been years since she had needed to use it. She thought she had done admirably assembling her disguise under the circumstances, and was quite pleased with the results. Gone was the Mary Morstan of high society, hair perfectly crimped and dress cut to emphasize and flatter her figure. She now looked much closer to a street vendor or paper boy, a slightly respectable commoner with feminine features. Her legs were no longer hidden beneath hoops and satin, instead she wore unremarkable breeches tucked into plain, yet serviceable knee boots. Her top was covered twice over with a plain white button up and a rather nice brown jacket that cut across her thighs and fastened in front. Her curly auburn hair was carefully pinned and tucked under a cap pulled low over her forehead to conceal the gleam of her grey eyes. All and all, she looked like someone who shouldn’t be where she currently was, so she had to clear the area quickly. 

Mary was careful to tread the balance between hurrying and nervousness. She should appear to be in a rush, but a forced and perhaps unwanted rush; a man who was on an errand. She had learned long ago that purpose was the one thing that cut off good actors before they could become great ones. If you made people believe you had a reason to be wherever you were, doing whatever you were doing, they would leap at the chance to believe you. All you had to provide them was plausible proof. Mary had proven this hypothesis time and again when she was a child, paying off the kitchen boy for his clothes and sneaking away from her nursemaids and governesses. A girl missing from her house and returning with a muddied dress was inexcusable, but one more stable boy looking worse for wear was practically expected. 

Of course, her disguise would not hold long. It was only a matter of time before one of the crew noticed an unfamiliar sailor, and then her costume and escape would be compromised. She had timed her plot with care, and was sure she would get the most of her time now, rather than later. She had decided to venture above just before sunset; most of the crew would be below eating and her father and the officers would be at meal for long past the crew’s break, discussing plans and sharing ale. Even the fog helped her situation, as much as she despised it. With the way ahead hidden the ship was moving as slowly as they could manage without dropping anchor, and the crew had been taking the opportunity to stay below and catch up on their rest. She guessed she had a little less than half an hour to stretch her legs and lungs before returning below, she thought, as she clung to the stair rails and poked her head above deck. 

She stepped cautiously and made her way to the railing on the starboard side of the ship. Her plan was working stellar so far; not a crew member was in sight, although there was no doubt a helmsman behind her at the wheel. This might have been a cause for alarm but she had had another stroke of luck with the weather. The fog had grown thicker since she last looked out of her window, and now it was impossible to see more than a few feet in either direction. She made her way cautiously, keeping a hand at all times on the side rail. Shapes loomed out of the fog, ones that were familiar in daylight but seemed monstrous and foreign through the mist. She had to catch herself from tripping over a coil of rope on the deck; for a moment she had thought it to be some sort of serpent. She knew sails and riggings were dangling over her head but the only sense that confirmed this was a creaking and groaning sound from above. It was eerie and uncomfortable; she briefly wished she had stayed below. 

The next moment she let out a brief humorless chuckle and moved on a bit faster towards the prow. She had come out here to escape from her room, and if her trip here was more discomfiting than expected, well, at least she wasn’t bored. It was cold, much chillier than she had expected, especially since it was nearing midsummer. She had to resist the urge to shiver.

She clambered up the ladder leading to the prow deck and soon stood gazing out at the ocean beyond. Or, she would have, if she could see beyond the wall of fog enclosing the ship. She had thought herself fanciful when she described the fog as a menacing presence but there was something unsettling about the complete blankness in all directions. There could be anything out there; sharp rocks, ghost ships, giant sea serpents; anything you could imagine and worse.

Mary blew out a laugh. She had obviously been listening to too many tall tales. Still, she closed her eyes against the chill white mist smothering the ship. Somehow the fog in London seemed warmer, illuminated by the yellow glow of streetlamps and candlelight. At least the fog seemed a little less imposing without sight, just listening to the lap of waves against wood, the creaking of the sails and rigging, the distant crackle of…

“Miss Morstan; I don’t believe you’re supposed to be up here.”

Mary’s eyes shot open and she made a quick turn with her arm raised to ward off attack before she recognized the sailor leaning against the railing a few feet away. 

“Lestrade. What the Hell?” Mary said, breathing a little quickly from the influx of adrenaline. 

Lestrade chuckled quietly and asked in his deep and raspy voice, “And what kind of language is that for a lady such as yourself?” He made a mocking sort of bow, slightly inclining his head and showing off his silver hair, uncovered by any hat. 

Mary didn’t hesitate a moment in her response. “I’m not a lady, but a simple sailor like yourself.” She made a full bow from the waist and added an insincere “Sir” to cap it off. They both kept eye contact until they gave into eye-crinkling smiles and laughter, light and giggly from Mary and slightly suppressed chuckles from Lestrade. 

Greg Lestrade had been one of Mary’s first acquaintances on the ship and had soon become one of her favorites. While interaction with other crew members had been stilted and hindered by the threat of her father, Lestrade had seemed completely unfazed by the dangers that came with associating with her. His unflappable friendliness had opened doors for Mary as the crew soon accepted her presence as an extension of the sailor. He seemed determined to treat her exactly like every other crew member, and this more than anything had allowed Mary to completely relax around him. Their joking manner had come naturally, and she had found herself missing it terribly while confined to her cabin. 

Mary was still a bit winded from her laughter and joined Lestrade leaning against the ship’s railing. “You nearly scared me to death Lestrade,” she said, “but how did you know it was me?”

Lestrade merely smiled. “You should know that no sailor spends more than ten seconds standing on deck without moving off to do something or other.” He tilted his head to look her in the eye. “Besides, I happen to know only one person on this ship who’d be so bored as to disguise themselves to go sightseeing when there’s nothing to see.” He smiled slightly to let her know there was no harm implied.

Mary groaned and titled her head back to see where the sails disappeared into the clouds of mist. “You’ve no idea Lestrade. If I spent one more hour in that cabin I’d have gone mad. I needed fresh air, even if it is so dense it’s like drinking water.” She pushed herself forward from the side rail and moved closer to the bow. “I swear; if I had a gun, I’d be shooting the walls.”

“And just what have the walls ever done to you?” Lestrade said with a laugh in his voice, but a touch of something melancholy as well. Mary frowned and turned away from the featureless fog, studying Lestrade. He was still smiling but it seemed more reserved than normal, and a bit removed, as though he were reminiscing. 

“Is everything alright Lestrade?” Mary asked with a touch of hesitancy. “I didn’t mean it. Father won’t let me carry a weapon and anyway…”

Lestrade cut her off with a soft wave of his hand. “I wasn’t worried Miss Morstan. You just… reminded me of someone I used to know.” The lines on his forehead had deepened and he turned away from her, although half his face was lit by a faint orange glow. He started towards the ladder, obviously retreating.

Mary knew she had to apologize, although she didn’t quite know what she had done to provoke this melancholy mood of Lestrade’s, but as she moved towards him she noticed something odd. A sound she had heard before, but never on the ocean. 

“Waves only break upon the shore, don’t they?”

Lestrade stopped halfway down the ladder and turned back towards her, some humor and confusion in his face and voice. “Yes, although a ‘sailor’ such as yourself should know that.”

Mary was not deterred by his amused expression. “And there is no such swimming animal that makes a sustained hissing noise.”

Lestrade had moved back to concerned; really, he had quite the expressive face. “Mary, are you alright? Haven’t been listening to too many ghost stories?”

“What time of day is it Lestrade?” Mary asked, a bit more faintly. She had turned her back to the prow of the ship, but even she could see how the fog had lightened, moving from a warm orange to a bright red. 

“It’s after… sunset…” Lestrade’s answer slowly died as he noticed what Mary had already realized. The only thing that would create that hissing, crackling noise and light in the sky would be…

“Mother of God,” Lestrade breathed. Mary couldn’t help it. She turned and immediately lost her breath. Flames spread throughout the wreck of the ship, igniting cargo and eating through tattered sails. Floating bits of timber surrounded the ship, burning like unholy candles. The fog still encased the scene but it glowed a dull red, giving the tableau an otherworldly feel. All that was needed to complete an _Inferno_ scene were the screams of the damned. 

“Moriarty,” whispered Lestrade.

Mary quickly glanced at him, but the sailor stood gazing in shell-shocked horror at the wreck, apparently unaware he had spoken. They didn’t have time for this, so Mary took matters into her own hands. She reached up and shook Lestrade’s shoulder. “Raise the alarm” she said in a lowered voice. Lestrade looked at her briefly, but his eyes were drawn back to the wreck with a sickened interest, like a moth to flame. Clearly more action was required to snap him out of it, so she grabbed his chin and forced him to look her in the eye. “People from that ship may yet be alive, Lestrade. Now, I would raise the alarm for you but I wish to avoid detection, so, if you would please do your job I would be much obliged.”

Some of her speech must have gotten through to him as his eyes cleared and he leaned away to shout, “Fire!” Within minutes the lax ship was bustling with frantic activity. Two longboats were in the water and deployed to search for survivors from what was likely a merchant vessel. Mary felt a bit queasy as she watched the flames creep higher; the fog finally begining to dissipate. She had told Lestrade lives depended on his action, but the chance that anyone could survive the utter destruction of that vessel was highly unlikely. Even as she watched the flaming mast toppled slowly to the water, brushing past the remains of the aft deck and sending sparks into the air. From here you could feel the heat… she quickly bowed her head over the rail as she worked to overcome the nausea she felt at the thought of people burning.

It was a good thing she had decided to sneak out that evening, she thought, long afterward. It was lucky she had been ignored at the bow, even good that she had felt sickened then. At that moment in time she only felt a jolt of adrenaline (oh, she wasn’t bored now) as she recognized a human form floating on a partially submerged timber. She didn’t even think of her disguise being blown or her father’s fury before she called out in a loud voice, “Man Overboard!”

The next moments always seemed to shift in her memory, most likely from the extreme shock and horror of the night’s events. She vaguely recalled helping the crew pull the man aboard and her hat falling into the water. She purposely clouded her memories of the remaining return trip and her father’s wrathful ire. Despite that, she did have perfect recall of two stretches of time after they found the ship that day. 

One occurred when she was told to watch the as-yet-unconscious man they had pulled aboard. The man looked older than her; more wrinkles across his face, although these were mostly smoothed by induced sleep, and slight touches of gray which showed more clearly through his salt soaked hair. Mary thought his hair might be blond once it was dried. 

He wore the uniform of a soldier, not a sailor; the red cloth darkened to the color of blood from seawater. Unfortunately, the uniform was not in the best of conditions. Any identifying insignia seemed to have ripped away; there were gashes and tears throughout, some of it showing burn marks. The only item of note on his person was a slightly tapered stick strapped to his back; some odd sort of cane, Mary thought.

Obviously, he was one of the passengers on the doomed ship. Mary spotted a shine of gold within the inner vest of his uniform and gently pulled it free, hoping for some identification or medal, but instead found a gold disc on a chain carved with intricate runes and a skull. From the weight of the coin she estimated it to be real gold, or some close mixture of metals. What was more troubling to her was the piratical nature of the coin, compared to the British nature of the holder. 

She whisked through the options in her mind. Clearly the ship had been attacked by pirates; even a fool could see no ship would be so utterly decimated except in a battle scenario. The most likely enemies in these parts would be pirates. If this man was discovered with this medal and no way of proving his honor and integrity he would at best face intensive inquiry and at worst the gallows.

What decided her action was the discovery of a wooden bit of shrapnel lodged in the man’s left thigh. She gave a quick call for a doctor, and as yet more sailors went to fetch a medic she quickly pocketed the medallion. She wasn’t sure what to do with the wound but couldn’t resist moving to touch the protruding shrapnel when a strong but gentle hand caught her wrist and impeded her movement. She quickly looked up and met dark blue eyes, slightly hazy with pain, but nonetheless clear of confusion. A light tenor voice implored her, “I’d rather you didn’t touch that, thanks.”

“A doctor is on the way,” said Mary, quietly but firmly, so as not to aggravate the soldier. 

The man chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t bother; I am a doctor.”

Mary raised an eyebrow at this but chose not to comment. “Well doctor, I’d be much obliged if you would release my arm so I could work on saving your leg.”

The doctor-slash-soldier had the decency to look chagrinned and quickly dropped her wrist, before grimacing and rushing out a flurry of instructions. “Sorry to be blunt, miss, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell whatever sailor you have on board that passes for a doctor that I’ll need bandages on my head, and a check on my breathing every hour or so. I’ll also need a quick extraction on the shrapnel in my leg with gauze and bandages covering that, to be changed every 6 hours and irrigated to prevent infection. And be sure to tell him if he even thinks about pouring salt water on any open wounds I’ll kick his arse back to mother England as soon as I can stand.” Mary was startled into a laugh at that comment and the doctor continued with a faint smile. “I’m going to pass out in a moment, but thank you for having me aboard.”

“It’s a pleasure …”

“Watson, Doctor John Watson,” he calmly replied before closing his eyes and succumbing to unconsciousness once more. Once the ship’s official doctor arrived Mary dutifully relayed John’s instruction to him, withholding the profanity. She watched as the sailors carried John Watson below, frowning a bit as she thought of the stranger she had just saved, hoping his health would soon return.

She had another moment above deck before her father found her out, but this moment, too, stuck in her memory. It was just a glance toward the prow and sea; almost instinctual to make sure the fog had beaten its retreat. But she saw much more than open waves and straggling bits of still burning flotsam. On the edge of the horizon she saw a ship; a beautiful dark ship with black sails. It seemed to be empty; she fancifully thought of the ghost ship of the Ancient Mariner. But what set a chill in her bones and had her clutching at the stolen necklace hidden in her pocket was the flag flying from the center mast; two swords crossed beneath a skull the twin of her medallion. A pirate flag. Moriarty, she thought to herself, and shivered with a sense of foreboding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If your next sentence ends in any form of apology I will punch you in the face, Doctor, and then let you instruct me on how to stop a bloody nose,” Mary informed him succinctly. “Now save your guilt and lecture for when we’ve gotten back to your house and are comfortably settled with some tea."
> 
> John's point of view, did I mention POV's would be alternating?

He really should know better than to take calls at this time of night, John thought to himself as he made his way through the cramped and narrow alleys of Port Royal. It wasn’t that the call hadn’t been urgent, for it was. Not two hours ago he had been pulled from his fire and book to hurry down by the port to check on a young boy who had broken his arm after leaning out over the docks too far, catching an infection and fever. 

He sighed as he walked slowly up the gentle incline to the town’s edge, his cane tapping on the uneven cobblestone. At least he had been able to alleviate some of the lad’s suffering and reduce the fever; with luck he would be more stable by morning when he would limp his way back down the hill. 

He kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he slowly made his way; he couldn’t afford to misstep and cause more injury to his leg. He scowled at that thought; at least it would create a reason for the debilitating pain to a leg that had never been seriously injured. He might be a good enough doctor for this backwater port, but he could not find a good reason why he still had a limp, when the wound to his leg had long since faded and left barely a mark. 

His mind was shaken from this depressing turn of thought by the sound that had prompted his unease in the first place; soft scurrying footsteps that quieted as he slowed. John abruptly came to a halt within sight of the edge of town but resisted turning as he heard the footsteps behind him stop a few second short. 

His follower obviously was not skilled in tailing people and, judging by the footfall, was not very large in stature. Still, the unknown had John at the disadvantage; he was unarmed (besides his cane) and with his injury could not move very quickly. He hadn’t been in a real fight and flight scenario since he had been brought to Port Royal. He smiled a vicious smile, one he reserved for the direst of situations that had not a hope in hell of succeeding. Could be dangerous. 

He strode forward again, this time at a slower gait. With luck his tail would think he had stopped in pain; in a town as small and remote as this it was likely the follower knew him, and more importantly knew about his limp. The slightly obscuring mist would make his next step easier, but first he needed to draw his quarry closer. At the last building before the wilderness he slowed down and faked a misstep that put him out of sight from the main avenue. 

He quickly pivoted upright against the brick wall and loosened the head of his cane; exposing the first inch of a wickedly sharp blade. He leaned over slowly to get a line of sight on the street and catch a glimpse of his pursuer and was rewarded when a small figure sailed into view. 

His stalker was short, with a cap covering their head and face, petite boots making little more than a sandpaper scuff of a noise. He tensed and raised his hidden blade higher … and then abruptly relaxed. While from a distance his follower would have blended in perfectly, now that they were closer he recognized the cap and jacket of a not-so-mysterious figure. He sheathed his blade, completing the illusion of a harmless cane, and stepped out into the lane. 

“You have to work on your tailing skills,” he said conversationally, although even that quiet comment caused the spy to jump a bit.

“You can’t blame me for trying,” said the figure cheekily as she tilted back her hat to reveal sparkling gray eyes. 

John smiled and shook his head slightly. Only Mary Morstan would be so ridiculously daring as to disguise herself and wander about town in the middle of the night for fun. “Well, Miss Morstan, what brings you to my humble alley this spectacularly gloomy and humid night?”

Mary snorted and leaned against the brick by John. “Looking for you, genius. You didn’t forget about our date, did you?”

John’s thoughts came to a standstill. Yes, he had forgotten. The urgency of the house call had driven the meeting completely from his mind. The guilt he already felt for continuing these nighttime visits started surging through him, but this time it was far more than the weak guilt of social propriety. Mary had been out searching the docks for him, in the dead of night, on her own. If something had happened to her…

Fingers snapped impatiently under his nose. He jerked his head up and refocused his eyes. “Mary, I’m so…”

“If your next sentence ends in any form of apology I will punch you in the face, Doctor, and then let you instruct me on how to stop a bloody nose,” Mary informed him succinctly. “Now save your guilt and lecture for when we’ve gotten back to your house and are comfortably settled with some tea.” 

John thought about protesting but quickly gave up the fight with a slight nod of his head. It would be better to get insde and out of the weather that was already felt in his shoulder and leg. And being seen outside at two in the morning with a stranger wouldn’t do anything for his credibility as a doctor and respectable citizen. 

“Fine. You win Miss. Let’s go.” Mary gave a bright smile, flashing teeth, and led the way towards John’s humble abode. John followed a bit slower, the soft tap of his cane fading into the mist. 

~~~~~~ 

A quiet click of a key in the lock broke the silence that had filled John’s house in his absence. John didn’t bother with manners at the door; he was much too tired and sore to remember pleasantries. It didn’t matter much anyway, he thought, since this whole arrangement was rather far removed from polite society as it was. 

“Damn it,” John muttered under his breath. “Candle’s gone out. Wait for a moment; I’ll relight it.” He began feeling forward carefully, guarding his leg, but Mary interrupted again after shutting the door firmly behind them. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I know my way around by now, I’m sure I can manage lighting a candle without burning the place down.” Her voice, despite the potential scorn in the words, was light and warm, implying her half smile as clearly as the sight of it. 

John obligingly stood still and smiled at Mary’s forwardness. He had grown used to her blunt personality over the months they’d been meeting and had eventually moved from tolerance to appreciation for her manner. At least he knew Mary would always tell him the truth of what she thought of matters. 

“Ah, here we are!” There was a sound of a match striking and a flickering light illuminated Mary’s face, giving her a flattering yet sinister glow. “Now, Mr. Watson, I’m afraid you’ll have to direct me to the nearest candle.”

John fought the urge to grin. “Mary, if you can find my box of matches in the dark I’m sure you can use your intellect and eyes to find a candle.”

Mary stuck out her tongue and turned around to reach unerringly towards the candle resting on the mantle. “You’re no fun, John. We could have played hot and cold.”

The single candle did an admirable job illuminating the rather large one room house. John had gotten a rather good deal since this building was a while out of town. No one trusted the wilderness here, which explained why all the people clustered closely to what passed for civilization in this outpost. The distance worked in their favor here; John was allowed privacy and space to himself and there were far less chances of these night meetings being discovered. It also allowed more space for his house to have certain features, such as a decent size woodstove and fireplace and a lovely back window looking over a small patch of garden and, on the horizon, the bay and town. It didn’t have much in the way of furniture; just a simple table and chairs with a bed stuffed in the corner, but it worked for an invalid soldier and itinerant doctor.

“No, we could not play any games. Particularly not when I’ve had a very long day and night working and walking about,” he said while Mary efficiently lit the rest of the candles in the room. John decided not to care about his wounded pride and took a seat at his table. Mary had seen him in far worse situations, after all. 

Soon the whole house was illuminated in the soft yellow glow of several candles and Mary was sweeping into her own seat on the opposite side of the table in front of the window. She settled into the chair with a contented sigh and undid the pins holding her hair up. Her auburn locks tumbled around her shoulders while the pile of pins grew in size. She really did have lovely hair, John thought, and he’d love to run his fingers through it. John cleared his throat; he needed to get off this train of thought. “You know, you’re going to have to put all those pins back in before you leave.”

Mary gave him a glare and continued plucking pins from behind her head. “John Watson, you have no clue how much of a pain these pins are. Every man should have to endure the agony of several hours with pins needling and poking their head until it aches.” She let her hands fall to the table with a contented sigh, her hair successfully freed from its confines. “I assure you, gentlemen would change their views about young ladies hair styles.”

John smiled at her assertion. “I’m sure they would, but you might have issues fitting pins into hair as short as mine.” While he was no longer in Her Majesty’s service old habits hadn’t quite died yet; his hair was cropped short to the sides of his head. It helped disguise his rapidly greying blond hair; curse his age.

Mary cast an amused glance at his head and replied, “Well, perhaps I’ll make an exception for a fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself.” John chuckled, if he was so upstanding he wouldn’t be taking part in these night lessons. “Or, if you prefer, you could partake in one of my father’s extra wigs.” Both of them laughed long and loud at that mental image. John moved to stand, after all tea had been suggested, and as host he ought to oblige, but as soon as he reached for his cane Mary had already stood and gently held his wrist in place. “Let me, John. You’ve been out and about all night, it’s the least I can do.”

John gritted his teeth against the urge to protest. He was a soldier for God’s sake, he had killed and nearly died in the service, the least he could do was make some damn tea. He stopped himself from voicing this and settled with a small, “Thank you, please,” instead. He clenched his fist while Mary busied herself by the stove and cupboards set against the far wall. He really did hate being treated like an invalid, although Mary’s treatment was more practical than pitying. Yes, he had been injured, but there was no medical reason he could discern for the limp. It remained however, dogging his steps and coloring how people treated him. If only, he thought, but that thought was cut off by Mary.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.” No judgment in her tone, just a statement of fact. Truly, Mary was a gem of a woman. 

“Sorry, Mary,” John said resignedly. “It’s just been a hell of a day on top of a hell of a month. Lord knows I wish I could do better…”

“Shut up John,” said Mary, turning around to face John while waiting for the kettle to boil. “If you start on about being a mediocre doctor again I’ll put all the training you’ve been giving me right back on you.”

John gave a half-hearted smile. “You don’t understand.”

Mary interrupted again. While she had many quality talents and features, politeness was not one of them. “No, I do. You don’t think you’re living up to expectations, not even your own. But you have to remember our expectations here were so low to begin with that any doctor is above and beyond what we were expecting.”

“You sure know how to raise a man’s confidence,” John said rolling his eyes.

Mary just crossed her arms and stared John down, ruthlessly keeping eye contact. “If you hadn’t had any doctor training you wouldn’t have made it to Port Royal, let alone have a home and work here. So, think a bit before you complain.”

John had to grudgingly admit she had a point. When he was brought aboard and rescued three years ago he would have been dropped off at the nearest port with little to his name but the tattered clothes and disguised sword on his back. Luckily John was able, once conscious, to treat his own wounds so handily that Mary’s father had taken note and offered him a position at Her Majesty’s newest outpost. It was an offer John couldn’t afford to refuse and he’d been here ever since. “Why do you always have to bring in mood crushing things like logic and reason,” he mock moaned.

“Because, Doctor, sometimes you feel much too bad for yourself, and it is up to friends like me to lift your downtrodden spirits.” Mary brought over two mugs of tea and reclaimed her seat.

“Truly, Mary, the theatre lost a great actor when you moved out here.” John blew and took a sip of the tea; absolutely wonderful. 

Mary kept her cup between her hands, warming them while gazing through the window at the harbor. “You never know, I might still join. I’d be less of a disappointment if I was out of sight and reach perhaps.” She turned back to the table. “I’m guessing our lesson will be put on hold.”

“I’d have to agree, unfortunately.” John said with a slight sigh. He couldn’t risk aggravating his aching wounds, real and imagined, with the dynamic positions and choreographed movements needed for a training session, although his mind certainly would have appreciated it. Training Mary in hand to hand and close weapon combat was one of the tried and true activities that made his doubts quiet and feelings of self-import soar. He might not be able to defend and protect others, but at least he could teach one other to fight and defend themselves.

“Good,” said Mary blithely, “I forgot my hand dagger anyway.” John frowned at this, he hoped he had taught her better than to go out at night unarmed. Mary caught his look and smiled. “Relax John. I’ve always got the one in my boot and the one behind my back.” Always be prepared and have a backup. At least he had done well with that lesson. 

Since Mary had shown up in disguise knocking at his door two years ago they’d been practicing defense and offence within his quiet little house. It would have been a terrible thing to have it ended because he hadn’t prepared her enough to handle a lone walk through town. He took another sip of tea, really, just absolutely fantastic. He could feel it warming his fingers and insides like a slow burning coal.

“John…” Mary paused. He quickly looked up. Mary looked as beautiful as ever but an unusual trace of hesitation had crossed her face. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“It’s nothing,” said John automatically but his hand gripped his cup tighter. Stupid, to have thought Mary wouldn’t notice the extra layer of tension underlying his exhaustion. “At least, nothing to worry about,” he amended, hoping to discourage Mary’s persistence.

Mary leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “It’s the ceremony tomorrow, isn’t it?” Her eyes held John’s again, as if to draw the truth from him. John couldn’t look away; the more he stared the more he could see minute color changes with the iris, the candlelight illuminating the edges until they shone like melted mercury. “John. While my eyes may be fascinating, I did ask a question that I’d love an answer to.”

John looked down quickly but then looked up again with a resigned, but fond smile. “I apologize Miss Morstan, it’s just, you look exceptionally lovely this evening.” He really needed to get over this attraction. He had made his intentions known a while ago and Mary had reciprocated his feelings, oddly enough. But when they finally kissed both felt there was something missing from it, so they had both returned to being good friends. John was sure there were many factors not adding up on Mary’s side of the relationship but he had been shocked when he felt there was something missing from his end as well. Mary was perfect for him, in every sense of the word, but for some reason that hollow incompleteness still hung around his heart. Of course, the mutual breakup didn’t stop him from being fiercely attracted to Mary. 

“Cut the formal crap, John,” said Mary. “Yes, I look lovely. Yes, you are looking handsome yourself. Now, you need to tell me why you’re so worked up about this technical formality of a party.”

John decided to go for the least pressing worries first. “I don’t have anything to wear; I can’t dance without risking injury to myself or my partner, what if someone needs my help while I’m holed up in that fortress? It’s just tempting fate!” John’s excuses fizzled out as he looked at Mary, who had a stern face and crossed arms.

“First of all John, those things aren’t what you’re _really_ worried about. But I’ll address them anyway.” She held up one hand with three raised fingers. “One, we’ve already discussed your outfit, my father has a set of fitted dress clothes in your size that he’s going to have delivered at daybreak. It’s not a regimental uniform so you don’t have to worry about standing out in the crowd.” 

She lowered one finger. “Two, there won’t be any dancing at all at this ceremony; it will be far worse. We’ll be forced to congratulate our newest commodore and make small talk, no doubt about dull things like politics and the weather. Besides, you’ll not be the only one collapsing as it’s bound to be sweltering and all the ladies will be in formal dress.” John should be offended but instead he let loose a small chuckle. Mary graced him with a small smile and lowered another finger.

“Three, I’m quite sure the citizens of Port Royal can take care of themselves for a day without the help of their doctor, and if it is an emergency they’ll end up coming to the fort and cutting this horrendous gala short. Truly, you’d be the savior of the evening.” Mary took a small sip of tea while John acknowledged his preemptive defeat in trying to avoid an appearance at the event.

“Well, I suppose you’ll end up dragging me along either way.” John said with an eye-roll and a smile.

Mary grinned triumphantly, and then sobered her expression. “So what is it that’s bothering you? I’ve never known you to be socially shy, so it can’t be fear of crowds…”

“It’s you,” John blurted out suddenly. Mary had the good sense to look offended but John quickly explained. “How am I supposed to act when I’m around you? To everyone else we’re strangers who’ve met indirectly once or twice. How am I supposed to act indifferently towards my best friend?” John bit his lip and stared out the window. Damn, he’d said too much, and now she’d no doubt mock him for having these ridiculous insecurities. Suddenly, he felt the gentle touch of fingers across the back of his hand. He turned, surprised to see Mary smiling gently at him. 

“Don’t worry, John. I’ll likely barely see you tomorrow; after all, Father’s trying to set me up with the newly promoted officer, so I won’t be wandering much.” She grimaced slightly at that. John felt a pang of pity for a moment. Mary would surely have a worse time at this event than he. At least he could bask in anonymity, whereas she’d no doubt be in the spotlight. He turned his hand over and gently squeezed her wrist reassuringly. “All you’ll have to do is put on your best manners and resist being drawn in by my gorgeous eyes.” She batted her eyelashes and John resisted the urge to smack her in the arm. “How’d you describe them in that poem you wrote, ‘pools of light / yet darker than night…” John gave in and gave her a mock punch on the arm while laughing. Mary was chuckling too, but thankfully didn’t quote more of the truly awful poetry he had attempted when courting her.

They both sobered as they heard a muffled canon shot from the fort signaling three in the morning. Mary grabbed John’s wrist again. “John, you’ll be fine. Just … please be there. It will make me feel a lot better if I know there’s someone else suffering through it.”

“Oh, joint suffering, is that all I’m good for?” He could tell Mary was worried as well though, her answering laugh was far too strained. He leaned in closer and answered in a calm and serious tone. “Don’t worry Mary. I’ll be there.”

Mary brightened as she moved back and started re-pinning her hair a bit hurriedly. “Good! Now I’ll have someone who I can gripe to after about the horrendous outfits and lukewarm drinks who will actually share my opinion!”

John leaned back as well and started the slow ascent to standing with the help of his cane and the table edge. “I’ll try my best, although I’m not as good an actor as you. I might just slip and start insulting everyone in public!” He smiled at the thought of speaking his mind to the rich and entitled of this close-knit and gossipy port town. Word would be across the docks within minutes of his insult. He wondered vaguely if he could time how fast gossip traveled.

Mary had secured her hair in record time and was already fitting a cap over the top. They both moved toward the door but before John could open it she gripped both his shoulders. “Thank you, John. I really appreciate this.” Before he could assure her it was nothing she had darted in and placed a quick but gentle kiss on his cheek and breezed out the door. John froze for a moment before he called out into the dark, “Good night! See you tomorrow!” The already shaded figure of Mary turned and waved before dashing down the lane. John realized he had a slightly stunned smile on his face and shook his head with a fond but exasperated sigh. He had a feeling tomorrow would be quite the trial. But, he reasoned as he shut out the night, at least going to a party in a military fort wouldn’t be very dangerous.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll need to know your name … sir.”
> 
> Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that but he recovered quickly and took a moment to observe. Seconds later he said bluntly, “What would you say to three shillings and we forget the name?"
> 
> Enter Sherlock! One guess as to which Pirates character he's emulating.

He breathed in deeply, feeling the salty breeze blow through his hair and curl out around his face. Exhaling now, he heard his breath whistle out from between his teeth. 

Stop. Relax. He unclenched his jaw and kept his eyes lightly closed. 

He could see the red glow of his eyelids; shielding his sight, but not quite closing out the heat and light of the sun. He wondered if this was what infants saw in the womb; light filtered through layers of tissue. He snorted at himself, that sort of fanciful thinking was unacceptable, especially as he had no way of proving anything from the fetus’s perspective. Although, perhaps he could create similar conditions using animal fetuses and uterine lining, surely the result would be comparable.

Stop. Focus and observe.

He took in another long breath and focused on what he could hear. Waves lapping against wood, obvious, he was on a ship in the ocean. The Caribbean Sea, to be precise, but he was getting away from his chosen sense. He could hear the breeze rushing past him; southeast, he hazarded, based on his last touch at the tiller. The breeze was also evident beyond his hearing, he could feel it playing havoc with his hair and pushing and pulling at his clothes and coat. 

More relevantly, he could hear the sail below him flapping and snapping with slight gusts and eddies of air. The sail strained with the wind, and the tension was evident in the spar he stood on. He could feel the boat react to this wind; transferred from sail to mast and then converted to energy and movement. Truly, a ship was a marvelous thing, even a small scale and relatively weak version such as this one. Really, this over-glorified lifeboat couldn’t hold a candle to…

Stop. Concentrate. Focus. 

His placid expression had tightened, lines bunching around his eyes as he fought the temptation to open them. The whole point of this exercise was to stretch his other senses. It was true he could observe far more than the average person with only his eyes, but without that sense he could potentially be … normal. He shuddered. He’d do all he could to avoid that, even if it meant relying on something besides his eyes. 

Now, relax. Expand. Listen. 

He could still hear the lap of water against his boat, but he also heard distant waves crashing against something else. He tilted his head slightly to amplify the noise; less hollow sounding than water on wood, a deeper resonance. This sound, combined with the constant susurrus of waves breaking. Rock, then. He tilted his head the opposite direction and heard a fainter echo of the same tenor of sound. So, he had finally entered the bay. 

He focused his hearing straight ahead, the direction his boat was sailing in. The waves had a sibilant sound now, more hissing and parting than crashing. He could hear the same echo of water on wood and underneath it all the sounds of people chattering and objects being moved. 

He smiled broadly with his eyes still shut. He had made it, finally. Still keeping his grin he opened his eyes, a startling blue-green enhanced by the reflected sea. He had correctly deduced the placement of his ship and the surrounding environs without once resorting to his sight. It only confirmed what he’d always thought. If people took the time to observe, even without use of all their senses, they could know far more about what is really happening around them. 

He relaxed his hold on the mast. Truly, sailing alone was a freeing experience, no noisy ignorant sailors around to mess up matters. After all, he didn’t have need of anyone else; he could function perfectly well on his own. He had learned that lesson quite well before.

He shook his head to clear his next thought before it could coalesce and gracefully jumped from his perch to the deck of his boat. Immediately an expression of disgust crossed his face and settled in to stay. His boots and the ends of his coat were now heavy with water. He looked down to see the bottom of his boat three inches deep in sea water. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had neglected in all his observing to deduce that his boat had sprung a leak.

~~~~~~

By the time Sherlock’s boat had made it to shore his mood was nearing murderous. His clothes were spattered with salt from his furious and futile bailing. In the end Sherlock had gathered all his necessary equipment and resumed his perch on the top of the mast. Of course, he couldn’t give any of his audience of pitying sailors any reason to mock him, so he gave away none of his vicious thoughts and struck a dramatic pose and enigmatic face; finishing the show neatly with a graceful step onto the dock while his boat’s keel settled on the bottom of the harbor. 

He made to stride purposefully off the dock toward the shore; after all, he had come to this godforsaken outpost because the Work demanded it. But apparently all his planning and bluffs weren’t enough to have the dock-master let him pass by unmolested. “Hold up there you!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but as he turned he made sure his face was expressing polite curiosity and nothing else. “Good day,” he said in a guileless tone while stepping closer. He wasn’t actively trying to intimidate this peon, but using his height to his advantage never hurt.

The dock-man didn’t seem impressed as he gazed up at Sherlock, indignation evident in his aggressive stance and squinted eyes. “It’s a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock.”

Sherlock glanced over the man’s shoulder at his submerged vessel; even the sail had been sucked beneath the waves. “Oh, I had no idea,” his voice was dripping with sarcasm but apparently the wigged excuse for humanity before him was impervious to it as the man moved right along with his open log book. “I’ll need to know your name … sir.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that but he recovered quickly and took a moment to observe. Seconds later he said bluntly, “What would you say to three shillings and we forget the name?” 

The dock master’s eyebrows raised briefly, but when Sherlock placed the silver coins in his ledger the over-glorified clerk’s expression cleared and calmed, and he smiled insincerely and said, “Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith.”

Child’s play, thought Sherlock with a slight twitch of the lips. The pay for this sort of job wasn’t much, not much more than a common deckhand, yet this man had relatively new clothes of a good make, including what must be a brand new wig judging on the brightness of color and neatness of the hair. Obviously this man was making money on the side, yet it was unlikely a man could hold more than one job in such a small port town. So, either extorting money or taking bribes. Bribes would be more likely and easier to manage in his job position, especially with ships jockeying for dock positions and fighting deadlines for unloading cargo. All he needed to confirm his suspicions was the burgeoning money purse laying on the stand near the dock master’s perch. 

Sherlock made his way down the dock and without breaking stride palmed the money pouch, continuing on his way. He doubted the dock-man would have noticed his lift normally, but as it was the minor criminal was arguing with the men of a two decked schooner that was unloading livestock, or at least attempting to do so. Sherlock let out a mirthless chuckle, the puffed up poser would be there half the day with that sort of entanglement, leaving him plenty of time to disappear among the townsfolk. 

His mind already buzzed with half-formed plans as his boots struck land. He, after all, had a job to do. Of course, his transport decided to jump in with a rather loud rumble from his stomach. He tilted his head back with a long sigh. Apparently the Work would have to wait until after he found a meal. 

Several minutes later Sherlock was sitting in a small pub at the bar waiting impatiently for the first thing he had spotted on the menu. His fingers drummed the worn and lacquered counter; clearly this establishment had been one of the first to be built during the town’s construction and had had a steady flow of traffic ever since. Hopefully some of their customers came here for quality and not just liquid oblivion. It was good he had come here first, he thought, buzzing through different plans in his mind. It never hurt to have more information and this might be just the place to find it. 

Again his thoughts were interrupted, but this time it was welcome as it bore food. The middle-aged barkeep, Madame Juliet going by the bar’s moniker, gave him a subtle once over before she set down his food, which appeared to be some sort of sandwich with water. “’Ere you go luv. You sure you don’t want anythin’ stronger?” She gave him a raised eyebrow and a flirtatious smile. 

Sherlock mentally groaned at this tactic but took advantage of the interest in order to put his own plans into motion. In a moment Sherlock had adjusted his posture on the barstool, from impatient and fidgety to relaxed and slightly seductive. He already knew women (and men) were partial to his outfit, which had thankfully dried in the sun. His trousers were flattering and form-fitting; more to prevent any clothing mishaps on deck, but it served another purpose here. His shirt was also rather closely cut, of a white hue with an open neck that left just enough to the imagination. What really drew the eye was his coat. Long, dark, and rather handsome, it flattered his physique and added a dash of mystery to his person (and had the most marvelous hidden pockets where he could store just about anything). While the clothes beneath may change, the coat had become an almost permanent fixture that Sherlock was loathe to leave behind. To finish this tempting picture Sherlock had only to lower his gaze and let his deep voice do the rest of the work. “That sounds lovely, but I think you could help me with far more than a drink.”

The barkeep was no longer going for subtle as she leaned toward him and fluttered her lashes. “What can I do for you then, handsome?” 

Cooperation was now guaranteed, so Sherlock dropped some of his seductive act and spoke more to the point, although he kept his voice low and intimate. “I’ve just got into port and I’m looking for a friend who might have passed through here. Perhaps you could tell me if his name sounds familiar?”

He was expecting a bit of token resistance as he was a virtual stranger asking personal questions, but it seemed he had picked the perfect lady to question. Undoubtedly this was the hub of the town’s gossip, and as such information was traded and shared as easily as money. “Just say the name lad. If I ‘aven’t heard it he’s not been through these parts.” She was still giving him lingering looks; perhaps his act had been more than usually effective. 

Sherlock tamped down his enthusiasm, it would be much easier to get information if he did not appear desperate for it. “He would have been by a while ago, going on three years. He would have come in on a transport ship and may have been injured. His name’s Watson.” He hoped it didn’t sound strange he only mentioned the last name; he had only found that last snippet of a name in an overheard conversation and had been lucky to get that much information as it was. 

“Oh, you mean the good Doctor!” Juliet exclaimed. “Well, I didn’t know anyone was looking for the poor fellow.” She lowered her voice so Sherlock was forced to move closer. “He was all on his own when he came in with the Governor’s crew. He’s not had much company since he got here, such a shame since John Watson’s been such a saint, patchin’ up everyone at all hours and limping about town.” She leaned even closer, clearly thinking the next tidbit to be extra juicy. “I ‘eard he’s sweet on the Governor’s daughter. But her father’s been trying to match-make her to someone higher standing in the ranks, if you know what I mean. Poor loves, both of ‘em.”

Sherlock had just about tired of her gossip and platitudes; as soon as he had heard Watson was in town he had already moved on to planning his next move. However, he needed a bit more to go on besides a limping doctor. “Thank goodness, I thought I’d never find where he landed!” Perhaps he was overselling it, but the shorter the time spent fake-flirting here would be more time spent finding the doctor elsewhere. “Could you tell me where I can find him?”

“Well he’s out and about at all hours, luv, it’ll be hard to catch him.” Sherlock had to close his eyes to control the urge to glance skyward. “But if you’re lucky you might find him at his home, straight out of town on top of the hill.”

Sherlock had all but dropped his seduction act and slid some money onto the counter before moving towards the door, sandwich in hand. He had hoped his swift departure would cut off any further attention from the barkeep, but her voice once more intruded upon his consciousness. 

“Well you’re in a hurry aren’t you? But you won’t find the Doctor at home this afternoon!”

Sherlock paused at the door and reigned in his temper to ask politely, if shortly, “Then where might I find Doctor Watson?”

Juliet, although Sherlock doubted that was her real name, smiled a bit smugly at foiling his grand exit; perhaps she hadn’t been as taken in by his act as he’d thought. “Well, all the high and mighty’ve been invited up to the fort, haven’t they? Seems one of the captain’s about to be made Commodore and our good doctor managed an invitation!”

Sherlock swept out of the door with a short “Thank you” before angrily stomping back towards the docks. This news put at least three of his tentative plans out of action; there was no way for him to sneak into the military headquarters on such short notice (to do a good job he’d need at least two days). He scanned the harbor area distractedly, then swiveled his gaze back towards the secondary dock leading to a small, but finely crafted vessel, clearly built for speed and recently stocked with goods, if the piles of crates near the gangplank had anything to say. He smiled, took a bite of his sandwich, and chewed contemplatively. Perhaps there was another way for him to find out what Watson was up to in the meantime.

~~~~~~

A short while later Sherlock was striding towards the ship, which he had learned from chatting dockhands was called the Interceptor. An apt name, considering what he was planning to do with it. He sighed a bit when he caught sight of the guards sitting on some crates near the walk; it was perhaps too much to hope that this ship would be left unattended. He didn’t break stride at the sight but continued on, coat flapping dramatically behind him. 

Now that he was closer he could make out the soldier’s faces more clearly and, more importantly, he could deduce what he needed to know about them. The one on the left was taller and gangly with an abundance of freckles across the bridge of his nose and an irritated sunburn to match. Despite this sun exposure the soldier had pale skin beyond the burns. Conclusion: a novice soldier who had recently been training in the yard. His suspicions were confirmed when the soldiers moved to block his way; tall and skinny stayed slightly behind and held his bayoneted rifle lower than normal, not quite used to the heft and weight of the weapon. His eyes were slightly wide with mild fear at the unknown, but his position showed no wavering. Clearly he’d be no use to sway; he was under the stress of performing his duty or losing his post. 

Sherlock moved his eyes to the other soldier and was displeased with his findings there as well. Short and stout had obviously had at least one term of duty by the state of his uniform and the tan lines at his neck and at the wrist. While he hadn’t had the most exciting of posts, judging by the relative lack of tone and addition of a gut brought on by excessive consumption of alcohol, he had been doing enough exercise to maintain a fighting shape. He’d likely had to deal with suspicious persons in his last position, perhaps as inspector of goods at the dock or fort, and therefore looked at Sherlock with a no nonsense face that assured him if he caused any trouble he’d see the business end of the rifle in a sensitive area. The suspicious soldier barked out, “You’re not allowed down here, mate;” clearly implying that he was not this man’s mate. 

Sherlock paused out of range and considered his options, keeping his empty hands in view to placate the antsy guard and his shadow. He could dispose of them; it wouldn’t even be difficult. He had several small weapons on his person that would do the trick and good aim to match the threat, at least over this short a distance. They were relatively isolated out here; he could have the bodies stashed behind the crates and no one would notice until he was long gone. But, of course, that option would involve some risk to his person and, however slight, he couldn’t afford any injuries now. Any attempt at bribery or lying wouldn’t work here; unless he had a legitimate excuse to be on that ship he wouldn’t get past these zealous buffoons. So it was that Sherlock Holmes found himself in one of the oddest circumstances he’d ever been in. The easiest way to gain access to the waiting vessel was … to tell the truth. He quickly dropped any sympathetic or submissive leanings in his stance and said in a no-nonsense tone: “I think you’ll find I’m an exception to that rule.”

Tall widened his eyes a bit but short was unimpressed after giving Sherlock a visual sweep and finding him lacking whatever officer quality he thought necessary to get a pass. “Oh really? Well, enlighten me, sir, why should I let a civilian like you past?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smiled, showing his teeth. Had the guard known of Sherlock or heard rumors about his reputation he would have known this look as a herald of the impending destruction of whoever received it. But as it was, neither guard recognized Sherlock or his reputation, and the look did not warn them. “What are your names gentlemen?” Sherlock said this politely and quietly, the storm still building. 

Short frowned but responded: “The name’s Hopkins, and this one here’s called Clarkie.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the young soldier, who still looked nervous and twitchy. 

Sherlock took a breath and began: “Well then, Hopkins and Clarkie, let me enlighten you as to why you will let me through. You are aware that there is a gathering of the rich and entitled up at the fort. I’m sure you are both resentful that fine upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves were not invited. Perhaps it’s due to your less than illustrious positions in Her Majesty’s army. After all, a jailor may be a good enough position when you need to keep people out of sight and mind, but then the jailor must also be swept under the rug as well. They couldn’t well tell you they didn’t want you out in the open to be looked at; you’re for labor not showmanship. But they were clever and no doubt told you they needed you for an important job. Meanwhile, they dismissed another new, but perhaps not promising, recruit to this dubious post. I suppose they told you they needed men of quality to guard this vessel? Perhaps whispered in your ear that they were counting on you to show Clarkie “the ropes,” as it were?” 

By the shocked and slightly sickened look on Hopkin’s face he had been dead on with his last minute deductions. “Whatever the cause, you two were sent far from sight and mind, although placated by the apparent need to guard a ship. They didn’t expect you to realize this ship was in minimal danger. After all, a ship this size could not possibly be sailed with a lone, competent sailor, let alone a crowd of civilians.” Clearly neither sailor had thought of this, and both blanched a bit more as they recognized the truth in the statement. 

“However, you gentlemen are in the position to be actually helpful. There is a plot in motion today that threatens the life of one of your most important civilians. I have been hired to prevent this potentially harmful event by recognizing and eventually apprehending the criminal. I am backed and employed by Her Majesty’s government and you are currently obstructing me from doing my job.” Sherlock moved in closer so that he was well and truly looming over Hopkins, and lowered his voice so that physical violence was implied. “So I suggest, _sir_ , that you let me pass, or you can be sure that not only will one of your citizen’s deaths be on your conscience but that you will be hearing from the highest reaches of government when they hear you tried to stop Sherlock Holmes from preventing that death.”

Both soldiers stood frozen in shock, weapons once more at rest position, and Clarkie let out a squeak when Sherlock mentioned his name. At least one of them had a clue of his profession and had the decency to be intimidated, he thought, as he swept up the gangplank. By the time he scaled the ladder and was leaning out over the aft deck’s railing he could hear the first stirrings from the shell-shocked guards. 

Really, Sherlock thought as he scanned view from the ship, he should try this truth thing more often. Well, perhaps selective truth. He may have told the soldiers that he was here to save a civilian, but he rather thought they wouldn’t need to know the details of why he was doing so, or what he was planning to do after he met the civilian. Dropping the implication of Mycroft’s responsibility was the icing on the cake. He almost hoped his exploits here would reach his brother’s ears; anything to throw off his bureaucratic power plays.

He took a few steps backward until he felt the helm nudge his back. From here he had a perfect view of the fort’s outer battlement. He whipped out his telescope and gazed through it; even better, he could pick out individual party goers as they mingled about the edge, admiring the view and exchanging pleasantries. He shuddered; at least here he could observe without actually attending the no doubt dreadful party. 

“Holmes, is it?” Sherlock would have startled if he hadn’t heard the duo walking across the deck towards him. He didn’t bother looking away from the party as he replied drolly, “Yes, I believe I said that already and I do hate repeating myself.”

Hopkins didn’t seem impressed; clearly he had moved from shock to anger. “Well, I’ve heard of the Holmeses, but I’ve never heard tell of a ‘Sherlock’ in the family.”

“And I’ve worked hard to keep it that way,” Sherlock said, bored of the conversation already, but he was interrupted by the quiet Clarkie saying, “I have.”

“What?” said Hopkins. 

“I’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes,” said Clarkie a bit more strongly and stubbornly. 

“No, you haven’t,” said Hopkins with a warning glare, but Clarkie appeared not to notice the message and doggedly plowed on. “Yes, I have.”

“Well, if you’ve heard of him, I’m sure you could tell me all about him.” Hopkins crossed his arms and smirked, sure he had derailed the young soldier. 

Clarkie, however, was not deterred and started listing all he knew to a skeptical Hopkins and a mildly amused Sherlock. “Well, it’s said he never stays in one port longer than a day, some even say he can’t touch land.” Hopkins snorted and Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued scanning the party, while keeping an ear on Clarkie’s ramblings. “Folk say there is no mystery he can’t solve, and no crime he won’t commit to solve it. They say he’s a pirate in all but the word. They say he can tell your life story just by looking at you.”

“Oh, and I suppose he can read minds too? Walk on water?” Hopkins scoffed and went on, “The only thing I can tell about _this_ man,” jerking his thumb toward Sherlock, “is that he’s a nosy git that needs to spend more time acting civilized and less time being the freakish excuse for humanity that he is.” Sherlock continued scanning the party, although he felt a bit of a sinking drag in his chest at the insult. He scowled inwardly, it was absolutely ridiculous to feel anything at the words of such an ignoramus. Stop. Focus. 

Apparently Clarkie was not quite done with his embellishment of Sherlock’s reputation, although his last comment was so quiet Sherlock had to strain to hear it. “They say he’s the only man who’s met Moriarty and lived.” 

The reaction from Sherlock was striking compared to his earlier indifference. He straightened in an ungainly twitch and turned around to face the young soldier directly. His calm tone gave no indication of the turmoil that had erupted since _he_ was mentioned. “Where did you hear that name?”

Clarkie seemed startled, clearly he hadn’t thought Sherlock was paying that close of attention. Hopkins raised his hands in exasperation at this turn of conversation and turned towards the railing. Clarkie started stammering, clearly not used to having someone’s full focus directly on him: “I… I don’t…”

Sherlock moved in and gripped Clarkie’s shoulders tightly, keeping ruthless eye contact. “Think! This is very important. Where did you hear that name.” Sherlock felt that he was vibrating with repressed tension. “Who were you with. When was it? How do you know that name?!” Sherlock’s voice had risen until he was practically shouting in the young man’s face, and his grip had no doubt turned painful. Clarkie made no move to answer, his mouth gaping open and staring incredulously at the slightly taller man. Sherlock made an exasperated sound deep in his throat but before he could question Clarkie again he felt cold steel at his neck. 

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome ‘Mr. Holmes,’” said Hopkins rather triumphantly. He was clearly enjoying catching the detective off guard, even if he had to strain to place his bayonet against Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. He had to be in control if he was going to get the information he desperately needed. “I … apologize … but the information you could provide about that name could be of vital importance to my case.”

“What case?” said Hopkins, not lowering his weapon for a second. “I think you’re just some know-it-all who wanted to show off by sneaking on this ship and spying on the fort. And don’t tell him anything more Clarkie!” he barked as Clarkie moved to open his mouth. 

“But sir,” Clarkie protested. 

Hopkins ignored him and leaned closer to the still immobilized Sherlock. “I could have you locked up just for trespassing, but being accused as a spy and traitor might fit you better.”

Sherlock would have scoffed at that but he was still in mild shock from Moriarty’s name and a bit miffed that Hopkins was more adept with his weapon than expected, as it rested lightly on his jugular vein. 

Hopkins continued in a lower voice. “I bet that story you spun about tailing someone was all a joke. You should be more worried about your safety than anyone’s at that party.”

“SIR!” Clarkie said urgently and loudly. 

Hopkins kept staring at Sherlock and said without moving, “Shut up Clarkie.”

“But sir, look!”

Hopkins turned and immediately forgot about his weapon, allowing Sherlock to nudge it away and turn to see what the fuss was about. Even without the telescope he could see some sort of fight had broken out between several partygoers. It seemed a group was engaging in fisticuffs with a lone man, and the one man was giving it as good as he got. The loner appeared to be holding a stick of some kind but dropped it when dodging one of his attackers. Sherlock remembered the bar woman’s words; clearly, this was his target picking a fight at a fancy party. Interesting. 

The fight had turned south for the doctor already; one of the group was proving more difficult to engage and the doctor suffered several blows that had him vanishing below the parapet before staggering to his feet. Sherlock preemptively shed his coat and effects and stuffed them behind the wheel; he’d need the extra movement. Sure enough, he heard the shocked gasps of both guards as the next punch, delivered while two of the group held the doctor’s arms, sent the man backwards, into and over the balustrade. Sherlock turned and saw his mark tumble down to hit the water. He quickly moved to stand on the railing and paused to give a parting note to the stunned guards. “If you would excuse me, I’ll be rescuing the man I was watching, or at the very least recovering his body. Watch my coat, would you?”

Without another word Sherlock dove off the ship and disappeared from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He held out the glass again to the wide eyed server for a refill; then realized he shouldn’t be so cavalier about drinking at a party like this. He took the now full cup and turned away from the table with another large swig; who was he kidding? He needed the alcohol more than good public opinion at the moment."
> 
> John gets into trouble at a party and our main characters meet! Sorry for any historical inaccuracies, let me know if there be typos. Also I threw in a Pirates character, just because I am bad with names and also happen to like this particular character. Enjoy!

John sighed deeply, gazing out at the ongoing party with a glazed look. The ceremony for the Commodore had been lengthy; two hours of pomp and ceremony while standing under a blazing sun made hotter by the surrounding brick. But what had turned an already unpleasant experience into a trial by fire (almost literally) was the after party, which had been dragging on for longer than John cared to know. He was silently hoping for a medical emergency to occur, anything to break the tedium. 

Tedium was not all this gathering had offered, John thought bitterly as he was reminded by a throb from his leg. Standing all day with little movement was taking a nasty toll on his pain tolerance. It didn’t help that being surrounded by military figures reminded him of his army days, when he wore the uniform with pride, when he could actually be useful for a change…

John straightened a bit more and decided to abandon his quiet little corner of the battlement. If he was going to go down that corridor of thought he would need a drink. Multiple drinks. 

John limped away from the shadow of the tower wall, although he made sure to keep as far away from the chattering groups of party-goers as possible. As long as he didn’t engage them perhaps they wouldn’t take any more interest than they already had at his unusual presence in the fort. 

He had attracted a decent amount of attention when he first limped onto the ceremony field, although some of that attention might have been because of his lateness. The Governor might have made good on his offering of clothing but he had made no guarantees on the delivery; John had had barely enough time to don the clothes and sneak through the fort doors before they were sealed. 

He had no doubt attracted more attention due to his attire as well, he thought with a snort. The Governor hadn’t put him in regimental colors but the clothes he had provided were several steps above the everyday clothes John wore. He was slightly uncomfortable in the formal trouser and jacket combination, although he did acknowledge the quality of cloth and the richness of the blue coloring, accented by silver and white touches. The whole outfit was no doubt flattering, judging by the looks he had gathered from the ladies of this providential court, but John longed for his normal, practical clothes. Although he might just keep the boots. They no doubt cost more than his month’s rent and their quality was evident in how long they had managed to fend off his injury.

John grimaced as another wave of pain migrated up his leg. Standing at attention used to be easy for him, expected, familiar. Now it was a trial worse than, well, anything he could bring to mind at the moment. Worse than the judging stares behind extended fans and snide whisperings that had been following him all day. Worse than only catching the barest glimpse of Mary earlier in the ceremony.

John came to a stop beside a low table and a large punch bowl filled with some sort of red liquid. God, he hoped it was alcoholic. A server behind the table quickly filled a glass and held it out with gloved hands. John took a preemptive sip, determined the drink to be unpleasantly sweet but with a kick of some sort of rum, and threw back the rest of the drink in one swallow. He held out the glass again to the wide eyed server for a refill; then realized he shouldn’t be so cavalier about drinking at a party like this. He took the now full cup and turned away from the table with another large swig; who was he kidding? He needed the alcohol more than good public opinion at the moment. 

John gazed out on the crowd and was extremely grateful he knew no one here. Oh, he recognized a few faces from house calls and the marketplace, but there was not a person here to inquire after his health or family, anyone who was interested enough to engage him in conversation. He supposed that ought to make him feel melancholy, but instead he felt only relief at the thought. It was bad enough he’d spent half the day lost in nostalgic thoughts for his time in the army; making polite conversation would only make the day worse. 

“John! John Watson!”

John nearly spit out the mouthful of spiked punch but recovered enough to turn, coughing slightly but retaining his composure. One of the partygoers had joined John near the table, and worse, seemed to have remembered that the doctor existed. John forced a smile on his face but before he could make his introduction the man answered his unspoken question. “Mike Stamford! It’s good to see you John!”

John’s confusion must have shown on his face but Mike seemed to take no offence and continued on cheerily, “We were at school together back in London! Studying to be surgeons, remember?”

John felt a strong sweeping sensation run through him and locked his knees so he wouldn’t sway. He gritted his teeth against the memories threatening to rise, of how eager he had been to help others, how bright his future had looked and how quickly it had gone dark. He struggled to repress his emotions but managed a reply, hoping none of his conflict would show on his face. “Right. Yes. Mike! Good to see you again!” 

“Good to see you too, mate! Always wondered what you’d been up to after school. Heard you joined the army, what happened to bring you all the way out here?”

John felt temporarily submerged by emotion again, a mix of anger, regret, pain, and hopelessness, but let out only the slightest bit of this emotion in his darkly humorous reply. “I got shot.”

Mike’s face fell the slightest bit and John felt guilt ease its way into the swirling mess of his mind; from what he recalled Mike had been a decent fellow at school, perhaps a bit overly friendly, but that was no reason to be rude. “So, Mike, what brings you out here? Thought you were in London with a practice.”

That should do it, thought John. Another trait of Mike's that he remembered was his ability to carry on an entire conversation with little input from other people. True to memory, Mike elaborated on his impromptu vacation to Port Royal (“the wife always wanted to go somewhere exotic”) in grand storytelling form with little but a nod or murmur from his audience. John had finished his drink and was thinking of how to break Mike’s narrative flow when another voice broke into their little group, “Gentlemen.”

John turned slowly with a short bow; he would know that voice anywhere. He rose and found himself faced with Governor Morstan, the newly appointed Commodore and Mary. It was time to put his acting skills to work. “Governor, a pleasure to see you sir. And you as well Commodore, congratulations on your new post. I am sure it was well earned.” John kept his eyes lowered throughout this interchange and hoped he had sold the part of an impressed subordinate. Truth be told, he had no liking for the Governor and knew nothing of the Commodore, but politeness had never steered him wrong. 

The Governor looked at John with thinly veiled distaste. He had not taken to John’s friendliness with his daughter since John had gotten off in Port Royal. John fancied the only reason the man had not sent him packing was the town’s desperate need for someone with any medical experience. The fact that the Governor had voluntarily approached him in public did not bode well. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met your friend, Mister Watson,” The Governor said after a moment of silent inspection. “Do introduce us.” It sounded more like an order than request and John bristled at the tone and the deliberate slight by leaving out his title. 

Mike, however, didn’t seem to pick up on the tension and jovially introduced himself to the Commodore and Governor with much hand shaking and chattering, which left John plenty of time to shift his glance and (finally) get a good look at the woman who’d convinced him to endure this event. 

Mary looked gorgeous, even more so than usual. Her hair was curled and coiffed and shone in the afternoon light, highlighting lighter streaks of amber mixed in with auburn. Her dress must have cost a fortune, patterned silk and flowing cascades of cloth covered her legs and the fitted waistline emphasized her figure. But John’s admiration stopped short once he reached her eyes. 

Gone was the warm, affectionate gaze of his friend. The gaze that matched his was cold, cold and judgmental. _You do not deserve to be in my presence_ , it implied. Like the Governor’s tone, Mary’s face communicated a sense of subdued judgment, that John had been measured and found lacking any redeeming qualities that might have required civility. John now had a sinking feeling to match the turmoil kicked up from the surroundings and Mike’s reminder. More than ever he wished that he had an excuse, any excuse, to escape from this place. 

Mike’s voice dragged him back and away from Mary’s harsh stare to notice that Stamford’s storytelling had morphed from his own background to John’s. “Yeah, John and I were at school together. Studied at St. Bart’s, and let me tell you, John was the top of the class. Not the only thing he was good at as it turns out…” 

“Mike, those days are behind me.” His standing with the Governor would not be helped by relaying his exploits with the ladies in college. John quickly redirected the conversation. “Commodore, I was most impressed with your swordsmanship during the ceremony.” He needed to get the topic off of him and onto more safe routes, and he had noticed the finesse with which the newly appointed officer had handled the blade. 

“I’m pleased someone noticed,” said the soft-spoken Commodore, John couldn’t remember his name to save his life. “I spent weeks practicing so I wouldn’t hurt myself or my outfit.” John focused on the Commodore and found a small smile lurking about the man’s mouth, under other circumstances John would have probably liked the man but he was under too much stress right now to appreciate much of anything. 

“Well, it’s good to know the army provides opportunities for practice.” John said distractedly, hoping the Commodore might carry on talking until the Governor decided to move on. But, of course, that was asking too much, as a soldier hurried up to the group and with a quick word dragged the new official away. He left with a slight nod and a quick, “Governor, Miss Morstan, Doctors,” before departing. John made a mental note to thank the Commodore later when he was in less of a mood to kill something due to his continued presence with Mike, Mary and the Governor. 

“So, John,” the Governor started, “Doctor Stamford tells us that you studied medicine in London.” His skepticism was clear in his raised brow and tone of voice. 

“Yes.” John said shortly. He was in no mood to discuss this subject with anyone, least of all the Governor he had heard so much about from Mary. Mary, who was here, but yet wasn’t. She had said she was a good actor, but he hadn’t expected to feel so alone while in the presence of a friend. 

His thoughts were derailed by Mike again, but this time it was to say his farewells. “It’s been a pleasure, Governor, but my wife must be missing my company.” Mike turned to John and in an unexpected move swept him into a one armed hug that was a bit painful for John’s shoulder. “John, take care of yourself, mate.” Mike gave him a sincere smile and John found himself smiling back despite Mike’s presence bringing back haunting memories. After all, it wasn’t Mike’s fault John’s life had fallen apart since they had known each other. 

With Mike’s departure John was left alone with the Governor and Mary and no one said anything for a brief and strained moment in time. Then John decided to break the silence first since there was nothing that either the Governor or Mary could say that would bode well for him. “Are you enjoying the party Governor Morstan?”

The Governor gave him a long calculating look before stepping in and lowering his voice. “Let me make something very clear to you John. You are here in Port Royal because I demanded it. If I choose I can have you sent away and another will take your place before your ship has left the bay. And if you do anything that leads me to believe that you are going to be more trouble than you are worth I will not hesitate to send you away. Are we understood, Mister Watson.”

“Doctor. Doctor Watson,” said John before he could think twice about what he was saying. He quickly added, “I understand completely Governor,” and bowed deeply, enough to be a bit mocking. As he straightened he could see the Governor was boiling mad, but the slight smile hovering around Mary’s mouth and eyes was worth it. Even if he had to leave Port Royal after today. 

The Governor left quickly after that, a still silent Mary trailing in his wake. John wished she could have said something, anything, but perhaps it was better not to draw attention to each other’s presence. And after his last comment John had a feeling that he wouldn’t get much contact with Mary before he would be forced out of port. Hell, he might not even be able to see her again. 

John made his way as quickly as he could to the edge of the battlement while his last thought brought the submerged emotions that had been plaguing him all day to the surface. He leaned on the worn edge and looked over to the rocks and surf below. God, what had he just done? There was no way the Governor would let him stay after being so impertinent; the man had been looking to get rid of him the second he had caught a hint of affection between him and Mary. He might as well start packing the moment he left the party. 

John breathed deeply and tried to get a hold of himself; it wouldn’t do to have a breakdown in front of high society, no matter how justified it was. It would only give them more to talk about anyway; just another check mark against the limping doctor who couldn’t even afford clothes to wear to a backwater fort party…

John wasn’t quite alone, even out here on the edge. Most party-goers kept a good distance from the drop off due to vertigo but some adventurous young men had decided to take up their gossip circle against the crumbling façade some feet away from John’s spot. John wouldn’t have noticed them, he was too trapped in his own head to bother with other people at the moment, but he happened to overhear a snippet of the boy’s conversation. “Not like he ever had a shot with her anyway…”

John tried to direct his ears outward, tried to listen to the waves crashing below, but the next comment met his ears as well. “Heard she’s set to marry Commodore Norrington; not that she’s much of a catch.”

John thought the waves might be getting louder but after a moment he realized it was the blood pumping through his veins, rushing to match his heart. _Just ignore them_ , said the reasonable part of him, _they could be talking about anyone, let it go…_

“…shocked he accepted, even if she is the Governor’s daughter, she’s damaged goods after getting with that doctor…”

John could take a lot of abuse. Let them spin comments about him all they like, he could take the innuendo and isolation. He could even put up with rudeness and threats, and he’d dealt with more than enough of that today. But he couldn’t, no, he _would not_ stand for this. 

John strode over to the group and tapped the speaker on the shoulder. Then, without so much as a word, he threw a right hook and the young man found himself clutching his jaw, rolling on the ground and making whimpering noises. John straightened and looked at the group of boys, not caring that spectators from the party were gasping and gathering around the scene. “Next?” John calmly inquired with a raised eyebrow. 

The next few minutes were a blur of motion and action. Two of the boys in the group rushed him at the same time, but with a tap from his cane to a kidney one fell to join the first on the ground. John moved back to block the sideswipe from the third boy and followed with an uppercut from his left. The third fell back, nursing his jaw. 

John had lost his cane somewhere in the interval, but before he could look for it he felt a strong blow from behind to the back of his knee. Agony swept through his leg and he fought to keep his eyes open against the pain. He crumpled to the ground but quickly regained his footing, he’d be damned if he was going to go down on his knees. He stumbled a bit but before he could make any moves against his opponents he felt two men behind him holding his arms in place. He started to struggle against the hold but one twisted his shoulder a bit; nothing that would cause much damage in a healthy man, but he had picked the shoulder with the bullet shrapnel still lodged inside. John bit his lip to contain a groan and sparks flew behind his tightly shut eyes. 

John opened his eyes and saw that the youth he had originally decked was standing and eyeing him murderously. His arms were released and he was pushed into the battlement while the man moved forward. John suddenly realized that he was leaning out over open space, that there was nothing preventing him from falling, aside from his tentative grip on the ledge. He heard his name called from the crowd behind and caught a glimpse of Mary’s face before a wild punch from the youth sent him hurtling over the edge towards the water and rocks below.

~~~~~~

Darkness. Pain, in his shoulder and legs. God, why did he always have the pain? Even in his dreams it wouldn’t leave him. But his dreams weren’t normally so featureless... John tried to breathe and couldn’t, water, he was underwater, oh god, he was drowning and the darkness, there was no light, he can’t even see which way is up, and now a pressure around his chest, squeezing, there’s no air there for you to take, no air, he needs air… _Please God, let me live_ , John thought, before darkness took his vision again. 

John’s second ascent to consciousness was slightly more coherent, if more painful. He felt rough wood against his back through the wet material of his shirt and someone’s presence, a hand resting against his chest and one holding his wrist, feeling for a pulse. John suddenly convulsed and started heaving the water from his lungs, salt burning his throat and dulling his senses. 

“Regained consciousness after two minutes, respiratory systems functioning once airways have been cleared, pulse rate a bit high, but understandable, considering you fell over forty feet into the bay. How soon can you stand?”

John finished choking on water and flipped over with a groan, his shoulder and leg aching, to see who had saved him. He stared absently at a younger man, clothes soaked from his swim dragging John to the dock, dark hair plastered to the sides of his head and neck, and a keen look in his oddly colored eyes. “Well?” asked the man with a raised brow, staring intently at John as if expecting an answer. 

John broke eye contact and rolled onto his back again, gazing absently at the sky. Something was missing here, something was wrong with this picture, something… “Where’s my jacket?” asked John in a raspy voice. 

“Floating somewhere near the bottom of the ocean no doubt” said the man dismissively, “but that’s not really a concern at the moment. I have some things to discuss…”

But John hadn’t really been listening to the man’s words, although it was hard to miss the deep sound of his voice. John closed his eyes and broke in mournfully, “That was a brand new jacket.”

The man snorted and continued, “I really think we have more to worry about than a loss of a jacket. Now doctor…”

“It wasn’t just a jacket,” snapped John, feeling defensive and still out of sorts from his fall. “That jacket was the nicest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. And you threw it in the ocean.” 

The man snapped back, clearly taking offence at John’s tone. “It’s not like you owned the jacket, a doctor living in a port town as small as this couldn’t afford clothing that high quality, it must have been a gift and therefore the only person who should be lamenting the jacket’s loss is your unfortunate patron.” 

John’s eyes shot open to find the man leaning over to look more closely at him. Clearly he had no concept of personal space. John was about to say so when someone cleared their throat impatiently and the man’s head jerked upward to look at someone beyond John’s line of sight. 

“Ah, Clarkie, good to see you again. Brought my coat and effects did you? Well then, best be off.” The man moved to his feet quickly and hauled John up as well. John was shocked that the movement didn’t jar his bad shoulder and that his legs held him up until he realized the man had slung John’s good arm over his shoulders and was supporting his weight. John would have felt offended if he had enough energy to feel much of anything. 

“Nice try Mr. Holmes, but you’re not going anywhere.” John gazed ahead and saw two soldiers, one carrying a pile of material with a pistol atop the bundle and the other leveling a bayoneted gun at the man holding him up. 

“That is incorrect, Hopkins, as usual. Now Clarkie, I would greatly appreciate it if you would bring me my things, I might have something that will help the doctor focus more clearly after his fall and near drowning.” John had to hand it to whoever this man was, but he sure knew how to boss people around, as the young soldier brought the pile forward, dropped it, and then retreated again. Strange, thought John. The man didn’t look like any kind of officer he had seen in port. If only he could think more clearly, then maybe he could get a grasp of this situation. 

John closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, but despite closed eyes could hear the tramping of more boots against the dock they were standing on. In seconds they’d be surrounded by soldiers, who would no doubt drag him up to the fort to spend a night in the cells awaiting the Governor’s judgment. He only hoped the other man wouldn’t be dragged into this. 

A click of the safety on a pistol wasn’t a sound John Watson would ever forget. There were some things the army taught you that never left, and the sound of a weapon being armed was one of them. He barely registered that the gun was being pointed at his head by the man who saved his life, he only vaguely noticed that the new Commodore and his troops were standing mere feet away with weapons raised, he didn’t think to question what was happening or why. For a moment John Watson was thrust backwards in time, no longer a doctor, but Captain Watson. And Captain Watson never took a threat lying down. 

John reached out, twisted the gun from his rescuer’s grip, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and, without a moment’s hesitation, struck a glancing blow across the back of the man’s skull with the pistol’s end. The man looked completely shocked for a moment and John felt a twinge of guilt before realizing this man had just pointed a loaded weapon at him. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the deck. 

John swiftly knelt and took his pulse to confirm that he had merely knocked the man out, not caused permanent damage. John could feel his brief adrenaline surge fading already and looked back up to the Commodore and his stunned colleagues. “If someone could return my cane, I’d be much obliged,” said John, his still damaged throat making the words faint and raspy.

“I rather think you don’t need it,” said the Commodore, awe evident in his tone, but John didn’t reply as he had succumbed to sleep once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s so relieving to know you maimed me after I saved your life,” Sherlock snapped viciously. The headache was taking a serious toll on his patience, not that he had much of that in the first place.
> 
> To his outrage the doctor merely chuckled at his response. “I think you’re forgetting that you pointed a loaded gun at my head after saving me; I’d say we’re even.”
> 
>  
> 
> In which Sherlock has a headache, does some thinking and deducing, and meets John and Mary (officially).

It would be inaccurate to say that Sherlock noticed just one thing when he awoke several hours later. Sherlock’s mind was quick to pick up data, even if it had been compromised for a while. While the first thing Sherlock noticed was his aching head it was by no means the only thing he learned before opening his eyes. 

The floor he was laying on was made of cold and slightly damp stone, cut but uneven and worn. There was a dank musty smell permeating the air, indicating an underground location and rotting plant material, and little natural light judging on the depth of darkness. Sherlock fought the temptation to sigh; it seems his plans would be further delayed by this impromptu trip to the fort’s cells. 

He lay motionless while he railed against his own lack of planning. He should have known the guards would come for the doctor; the limping man might have started a fight at a party but it was always a priority for soldiers to help civilians no matter what they had done. If he had waited the soldiers might have retrieved the doctor on their own and he would have been waiting quietly on the sidelines, ready to make his move. Instead he had jumped after Watson without a second thought. 

He frowned, that was most unlike him, but perhaps the necessity of finding this doctor had overridden his self-preservation instinct. It would not be the first time he had risked his life and safety for the Work.

Folding his hands under his chin he reviewed his tentative plans. He would have to adjust his escape strategy; being caught and locked up was hardly a challenge but the doctor might prove to be more of a problem. He had not expected the injured man to respond so quickly to Sherlock’s threat, and in such a violent but efficient manner. While Sherlock’s head still throbbed around the area of impact he could tell that the blow had been delivered competently; enough to incapacitate but not permanently injure. The doctor had known how to handle a weapon and had put his knowledge to use, even in a disoriented state. If only he had a few more moments to observe, perhaps then he could have a better measure of the man…

“How’s the head?”

Sherlock jerked his head up to look around and had to bite back a moan as his head swam unpleasantly from the rush of blood. He could hear another person in his cell shifting and felt hands on either side of his head, helpfully moving him to rest on the floor again. He gritted his teeth; how had he missed that he was not alone in this place? Concussions were no excuse; he clearly needed more practice with sensory deductions. 

He heard cloth rustling and felt the hands lift and replace his head, this time to rest on a lump of discarded clothing. The hands did not lift away, however, but moved gently over the back of his head. 

“Just checking for damage; wouldn’t want you to get an infection, would we?” 

The voice was light, but clearly male, and a bit tense, perhaps due to patient concern. Sherlock shifted his eyes to see the doctor he had rescued leaning above him in a reversal of their earlier positions. Sherlock noted Watson’s face and mannerisms; professional interest in the wound and how it was healing and a slight guilt mixed in his expression, probably for causing the wound in the first place. 

He glared up at Watson, showing just how much contempt he had for the idea that the doctor would care what sort of damage he had personally caused, but before he could verbalize his scorn the doctor’s fingers prodded the swelling at the back of his head and he winced at the sharp pain. 

“Some decent swelling, but no broken skin. I’m guessing you’ll have a nasty headache but will make a full recovery.” The doctor’s voice held a trace of pride; Sherlock could only guess it was from the neat handiwork on his head that had led to his incarceration. Thankfully the doctor let go of him and backed away; Sherlock wasn’t sure he could take much more of his condescending care. 

“It’s so relieving to know you maimed me after I saved your life,” Sherlock snapped viciously. The headache was taking a serious toll on his patience, not that he had much of that in the first place.

To his outrage the doctor merely chuckled at his response. “I think you’re forgetting that you pointed a loaded gun at my head after saving me; I’d say we’re even.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself, the doctor did have a point there. “Fine. Leave now. I can’t think with you being dull in here.” While the doctor was still central to his plans he didn’t need Watson with him at this stage; it would be far easier to pick up the doctor once he escaped from jail. 

The doctor chuckled again, but this time the sound was darker and more despairing. “You’re assuming I’m allowed to leave.” 

Sherlock turned at this. He stared at the doctor for several minutes, deductions swirling through his mind. The doctor sat against the far wall, staring dejectedly towards the barred door. He was still wearing the clothes he had when Sherlock pulled him to the dock, now stained and wrinkled beyond repair. His knees were drawn up tightly to his core, and his left hand visibly shook against his leg. He looked like a man who had no hope of relief or escape from his situation. And Sherlock could use that to his advantage. 

“Why are you in Port Royal, doctor?”

Watson didn’t even bother to turn his head at this question. “What do you mean, why am I here?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Don’t repeat yourself; I know perfectly well what I said without you repeating it back at me.” John snorted but Sherlock went on. “A doctor recently invalided from India after being wounded wouldn’t come to this spot on the map without some thought behind his actions.”

The doctor startled visibly at this but quickly regained composure, turning his dark blue eyes upon the still supine detective. “Who said anything about India?”

“I did. You must have been there quite a while as you’ve kept to military habits despite being far from the field, old habits do die hard. I’d say one, no, two tours of duty completed on the continent; although the last was likely interrupted due to your injury.”

The doctor’s tremor in his hand, rather than increasing, had faded, and Sherlock was sure he had the doctor’s full attention now. 

“Strange, to find an ex-army medic out here in an obscure port town playing town doctor. Even stranger knowing you’ve seen action in the line of fire and had been granted leave after your injuries had cleared. You should be back in England, a medal of honor for services rendered sitting on your hearth, tending sore throats and common colds from the comfort of your home practice. But something stopped you from doing so. No, you didn’t come so far from home without planning, although Port Royal wasn’t necessarily your destination. Something drew you to this area, or someone.”

The doctor’s breath had become shallow and rapid as Sherlock had gone on; clearly Watson didn’t like the direction Sherlock was carrying this conversation. However, Sherlock was surprised to note that the doctor didn’t follow the other physical signs of stress that affected most people under interrogation. In contrast the doctor seemed contained and calm, even if it was a forced calm, his legs had tensed, prepared to propel him into action at any moment and his hands were completely steady. This doctor seemed to thrive on stressful situations; Sherlock thought speculatively, he could definitely work with that. 

“Or perhaps it’s the other way around.” Sherlock mused out loud, watching the man’s face for any movement. “It’s statistically unlikely for a man fresh from military service to have contacts out in the Caribbean. You weren’t coming here for someone, you were fleeing. Anywhere would do, the more isolated the better. This would be the last place someone would look for an army doctor. Most people would want to leave the moment they spied this port but you saw the potential here, the possibility of hiding in plain sight. You weren’t looking to make yourself a new life, you were looking to disappear.”

There was echoing silence in the cell for a moment, even the doctor’s hurried breaths were paused. Sherlock waited for the impending anger, hoping it wouldn’t turn physical. He needed this man to remember this part of himself, needed the information he could give, and if awakening bad memories was the key then he would deal with the fallout. It wouldn’t be anything he hadn’t had to deal with before, he thought, already shuttering his emotions. 

“That. Was… Amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he stared at the doctor in blank astonishment, brain at a momentary standstill. He blinked several times, trying to reconcile all the reactions he had gotten from such deductions in the past, but none of the people he had verbally fileted had ever looked at him like John was now. There was anger, yes, and some amount of sorrow and sickened worry too, but Sherlock couldn’t move past the awe-struck look in the doctor’s eyes. Sherlock’s brain must have been still offline as he said the first thing that came to his mind, “That’s not what most people say.”

The anger and other darker emotions seemed to have faded from John’s face, replaced by grudging amusement, as if John knew he should be angry but found the situation too humorous to care. “What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.” 

Sherlock suddenly found himself chuckling, actually giggling, and was startled when John laughed along with him. This was … different. Sherlock cut off his laughter and threw all his effort into maintaining a calm composure. There was no way he’d succeed in his plans if he was going to be constantly sidetracked by John’s reactions. He briefly frowned; perhaps this was going to be harder than expected. 

“So, how did you know about…” But John’s query was interrupted by the clang of a metal door and loud steps down the stairs to their subterranean cell. Someone had decided to pay them a visit. 

Sherlock pushed himself into a seated position, although he took care to rest his head gently against the wall behind him. The ache was fading, but not as quickly as he’d like, still leaving a soft haze of pain at the edges of his vision. John had moved from his crouched position and was standing near the cell door, his outline becoming clearer as torches were lit for their visitors, hair and eyes lightening in the glow. Sherlock scowled at his thoughts, since when had ‘the doctor’ become ‘John’? 

Sherlock could hear cloth rustling as the group moved closer. Judging by the quality of the sound, plus the soft thuds of wood against stone and multiple shoe scuffs Sherlock could guess who was visiting them. John seemed to expect this visit as well, until the visitors rounded the corner and the doctor drew in a quick breath at the sight. Sherlock’s friends from the dock had decided to pay a visit, along with a young woman still dressed in her ceremonial wear; recently ordered from England and about two sizes too small, Sherlock deduced from his quick look, before turning his attention back to John. 

Unlike Sherlock, John seemed to be completely sidetracked by their mystery woman judging by his wide eyes and tightly closed mouth. John darted quick glances at the woman’s companions and straightened his stance, unconsciously returning to parade rest. Sherlock noticed he did not favor either leg; perhaps the doctor had no use of his crutch after all. “Miss Morstan, to what do we owe this pleasure?” John spoke in a polite tone, but from the way his hands were gripped tightly behind his back Sherlock knew the doctor was feeling uneasy. 

The young woman turned to Hopkins and said quietly, “I would like a moment alone with the prisoners if you don’t mind.”

Hopkins, clearly feeling he was being made inferior yet again, bristled as he objected. “Miss, the only reason you are allowed to speak with these men is because your father…”

“Is Governor, and as such I am to be allowed every courtesy and privilege he commands. When you address me you address his office. Now, I only need a few minutes of time alone, after which I will take you two with me so that I may bring your excellent service to Governor Morstan’s attention personally. Would this be acceptable?” 

Throughout this speech her voice scarcely rose above a murmur and her tone was that of propriety made manifest. Sherlock couldn’t help but be intrigued by this excellent display of mimicry; this young woman was nearly as good at acting as him. 

The guards, however, were completely taken in by the bait, and with a few menacing glares from Hopkins and a curious stare from Clarkie aimed at him both disappeared again. 

Instantly the mood in the cell changed, and Sherlock watched as the countenance of both John and Miss Morstan morphed. John shifted his weight uncomfortably and scratched the back of his neck while lowering his eyes; he was put off by this woman seeing him in this state, Sherlock noted absently. The woman, there was no other way to put this, melted. Her face shifted from polite distance to affectionate worry and her stance became loose, rather like someone having been stretched and then released from their bonds with a reflexive curl. 

“John.” The woman said, and her voice conveyed repressed approval and amused affection. Sherlock knew at once from her voice that these two knew each other, and knew each other intimately. 

John looked up at her tone and stopped fidgeting immediately, his stress seemed reduced by her presence and he gave her a half smile. “Hello Mary.” His voice confirmed what Sherlock had suspected, that the doctor was very much in love with this young lady. What Sherlock wasn’t sure was why he immediately disliked this deduction, and felt some latent anger drifting towards this … Mary.

“John, I know you said you hated parties, but I wasn’t expecting you to break it up with a fistfight!” Mary said this in a mock disapproving voice, but her smile broke all thoughts of judgment. 

John smiled back just as widely, “Anything to put you out of your misery, Mary,” he said, before giving a short bow. 

Mary sobered for a moment and went on, “In all honesty John, please don’t do anything like that again. You gave me a fright.” Sherlock snorted, clearly this woman didn’t know enough about John to know he needed the action and adrenaline. His returned favoring of his leg was evidence enough of that. 

The woman’s eyes had found Sherlock in the darkness and they widened minutely, she had likely forgotten that John had a cellmate. John turned to look Sherlock in the eye and gave a faint smile before turning back to Mary. “Oh, that’s my cellmate. Forgive him if he doesn’t say hello, he’s got a nasty headache.” 

Mary looked amused again, eyes crinkling with mirth. “Yes, I heard that tale already. Doctor Watson taking down an armed pirate, after falling forty feet into the ocean and almost drowning.”

John gave a lopsided smile, although a slight blush of pink made its way up the back of his neck. “Well, I doubt you heard the part about him saving my life.” Was it Sherlock’s ears playing tricks or did the doctor sound a bit defensive?

Mary didn’t look away from John as she said, “No, I hadn’t heard that.” She did turn and look Sherlock in the eye after a moment. She said truthfully and from her heart, “Thank you for saving John’s life.” Sherlock felt mildly happy at this, no one ever thanked him for anything, but he viciously repressed it, reminding himself that he did not like this woman who was overly familiar with John. 

Mary looked back at John and blinked quickly, repressing tears perhaps, thought Sherlock before she adopted a much more business-like tone and spoke quickly. “John. There isn’t much time for me to talk, and if Father finds out I was here he’ll be livid. So. Father plans on hanging your cell mate in two days; on that day the Commodore will be setting off on his first official voyage on the Dauntless and our high society won’t be bothered by real life executions interfering with their politics.” She rolled her eyes pointedly at this but went on. “At the same time you’ll be sent packing on the nearest ship, which will likely be the Interceptor as it is nearly ready for launch, and you’ll never be allowed back in Port Royal, on pain of death. That leaves very little time for your escape…” 

Mary’s voice was cut off by footsteps from the guards returning and Sherlock was mildly disappointed. He would have liked to know her plans for a jailbreak and compared them to his own, to see where they overlapped, of course. Hopkins and Clarkie came trudging around the corner, torches flaring and showing the worry and disappointment on John and Mary’s faces. They both had their countenances controlled as the soldiers approached, but the tension in the air was palpable. At least, to anyone with half a brain, Sherlock thought. 

Mary argued with Hopkins for a while on the length of time she was allowed but clearly the guards were anxious to make an impression on the Governor as soon as possible. Manipulation had its limits, Sherlock thought to himself, settling back to planning his own daring escape. 

Mary spoke to Clarkie, and after a moment was handed the doctor’s cane, which must hold an impressive hidden blade, based on the wood carvings around the neck and the density and length of the cane in question. But what drew Sherlock from his tentative entrance to his mind palace was what was revealed when Mary leaned forward against the bars and handed the cane through the gap. A thin gold chain with a heavy medallion swung forward with her momentum, free from the hiding place at her neckline. 

Sherlock was on his feet and against the bars in a moment, medallion grasped in his hand, fighting against the nausea from the sudden movement. He held it briefly, distractedly taking in everyone’s shocked reactions as he weighed the disk, and feeling the carvings that made it hated and familiar. Before the guards could once again menace him he stepped back, letting go of Mary’s necklace. 

The guards and John both started yelling at him, a combination of “What the hell are you doing?” and “Back off you crazy nutter!” Clearly John was too incensed with the situation to notice what Mary was wearing. Mary merely looked shocked and apprehensive as she stared at Sherlock. And Sherlock knew. This medallion was not hers, of course not, it had been John’s, obvious. But she had taken it from him. And John did not know that she had it. 

“You should not have kept it.” Sherlock said flatly to Mary, ignoring the babbling around him. “You should have thrown it away when you had the chance.”

Mary looked frightened. Sherlock felt a connection with the young lady for a moment in time, Mary’s fear was a reflection of his own; informed fear. They both knew what this medallion meant. They both knew the name connected to this piece of gold, and that did not bode well for either of them. 

“Why?” Mary asked, thinking no doubt that a named fear is better than the unknown. Wrong, thought Sherlock; confronting a known fear, a fear that had beaten you before and could do so again, that was worse. 

“Moriarty never gave up something he lost, and this is no exception,” Sherlock said, before backing away into the shadows. 

Mary was whisked away by the guards before she could say any more, her gaze once more shuttered with subtle fear leaking out in her stiff movements. John had stopped shouting at Sherlock and the guards and slid down the wall to sit on the floor once again. 

“That was a bit not good, “John said absently. Sherlock turned and looked down at him, thinking furiously. Now that he knew where the medallion was he needed all the time he could get to plan. 

“What the bloody hell was that all about anyway?” John said wearily, frustration evident in his clipped tone. 

“Mary has something that doesn’t belong to her, something that will draw someone very dangerous to this port.” 

“And you think this … Moriarty … will come all this way to get … whatever it is?”

Sherlock took stock of his situation: he was frightened but not panicked, he had plans to deal with this and he would execute them with his usual style and flair. He would not let the past repeat itself and he had the upper hand in information to ensure that it wouldn’t. 

Sherlock smiled his most dangerous smile, all teeth and menace. “Oh, no doubt about it.”

John gripped his cane tightly and looked up at Sherlock, determination written in his face. “Alright. What are we going to do about it?”

“We’re going to stop him, of course,” said Sherlock with a grin; this is what he had been missing on his own, the thrill of the chase and a willing audience. _We_ , thrilled a small voice in the back of his head.

John stood up and held out his hand, “John Watson,” he said with a small smile, eyes steely with resolve. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock, waving away John’s hand perfunctorily. “Now, be very quiet and don’t move. This needs precise timing and execution, and for that I need to go to my mind palace.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mary straightened and unclenched her fist where it had gripped the medallion. She might not be able to escape now, but she could at least deflect attention away from the town and her friend. She recalled her last conversation here, of John assuring her she was a wonderful actress. She squared her shoulders; time to put that to the test."
> 
> Mary meets some Pirates and Moriarty's being cryptic. More answers and action to come in the next chapter!

Mary sat at John’s little table, her hands curled loosely around a now cold cup of tea. Normally the little room would be welcoming; the presence of her friend bringing a warmth that candles couldn’t match. But the house without John was wrong, more empty and cold than it had any right to be. 

How had things gone so wrong? Mary gripped the cup tighter as remorse swept through her. If she hadn’t insisted on John’s presence, if she had let her father overlook the doctor, maybe John wouldn’t be where he was now. Maybe he wouldn’t be stuck in jail, waiting for her father to send him packing on the nearest ship out of the harbor. 

Mary gazed out the window, looking absently out at the bay. She hadn’t had a chance to sneak back into the fort to finish her cut off conversation with John, but she hoped beyond hope that he would be able to think up some way out of this mess. John was smart, despite all his self-deprecation, and he wouldn’t have a problem fighting if it came down to it. 

For a moment Mary felt she was watching John tumble over the cliff again, thinking only that she was too late to save him. She tried to ignore the chill that went through her at the thought. If there was anything she could do to save John, she would do it. 

Mary gritted her teeth, her reflected gaze steely with resolve in the window. She would have to beg then. Her Father had never been able to refuse her before, but this request would be exceptionally difficult. She would have to word it perfectly; make it clear that she was only thinking in her Father’s best interests in keeping the doctor, and not breathe a word about her friendship with the man. 

Unfortunately, she had rather shown her hand on the battlement that day, unable to stop shouting John’s name as he fell from sight. Only once she had seen John pulled to safety had she turned back to her Father, and his grim look did not bode well for either of their fates. She shook her head slightly to clear this discouraging thought, but as she moved her eye caught something odd in the distant town. 

The night was quiet and dark; clouds shrouding what might have been illuminating moonlight. Despite the shadows she could see the town’s outline growing brighter, see details of windows and streets in a warm glow of light. 

Mary quickly stood in a moment of panic, then relaxed minutely. For a moment she had thought the light might have come from carried torches, and her mind immediately jumped to her Father and search parties. After she had taken the jail guards to her home (and introduced them, as promised) she had fled here, not even stopping to change out of her formal wear. It wasn’t a stretch to assume her Father would be looking for her, but the light in town, which had grown in strength and spread, was far too powerful to be from a mere hunting party. 

Mary stepped closer to the window; pressing her nose against the pane in an effort to see more detail from the town. The light had continued to spread, and by the glare she could see dark figures gathering outside buildings. She did not grasp the seriousness of the situation, until she saw flames leaping from a rooftop. 

Mary stood back, her brow creased with worry and anxiety. Fires were never good in this climate; too much of their building materials were flammable, and despite the closeness of the sea the fires were tricky to put out. But as the flames leaped higher Mary saw something that made her heart lurch unpleasantly and her hand clutch reflexively at the medallion she still wore. Beyond the town and dock there was a new ship at anchor, and although the night was too dark to make it out she was sure it was the same ship she had seen three years ago. 

Mary’s heart started beating uncomfortably fast and she could feel her palms start to clam up as she thought of why this ship had appeared here. The words of John’s cell mate echoed in her head, that Moriarty would surely come to get what was his. That man had known, she thought furiously, just as Lestrade had known, what this man’s name meant. If only someone would have told her something about it! And how was John connected with this dangerous name, how had he come by something an almost nameless threat so desperately desired?

She was missing too many pieces of the puzzle, and she needed to leave, now. She could hear the bustling and panic coming from the town now, and she was sure this fire was started to distract from the ship’s entrance. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe she could return the necklace without repercussion, but it might be the only way to get Moriarty to leave. After all, if she returned it in time perhaps the pirates wouldn’t bother sacking the fort, and John would be safe, well, as safe as he could be at the moment…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a quick knocking at the door. She swore silently at herself, doctors were always sought out in times of crisis; of course they would need medical help. But before she could cross the room she paused. Surely everyone in town had already heard the doctor was being held at the fort. The only reason someone would bother to come all this way is because the lights were on, indicating someone was home. 

The knocking continued at the door, but it increasing in tempo and weight; the door shaking under the extra stress. This was no house call or concerned citizen, Mary knew instinctively, it could only be crew members from the mysterious ship in the bay. Looking for the medallion. Looking for John. 

At that thought, Mary straightened and unclenched her fist where it had gripped the medallion. She might not be able to escape now, but she could at least deflect attention away from the town and her friend. She recalled her last conversation here, of John assuring her she was a wonderful actress. She squared her shoulders; time to put that to the test. 

The door had been shuddering constantly under what sounded like multiple fists, but a sharp kick from a heavy boot sent it sailing into the wall and allowed the intruders to walk in. There were three of them; too many for her to best in a fight, Mary thought. Not to mention that all three of the men were armed, swords evident at their hips and one carrying a cocked pistol. But that was not what made Mary’s heart quail. 

The first two pirates were relatively short and lean, in fighting shape but wanting a good meal, and they would no doubt be easy to manipulate with bribes or other incentives. But the third, who stood behind by the ruined door, showed Mary the futile nature of her plan. This man was sturdy and tall, broad in the shoulder and sporting multiple scars along his arms and one trailing scar from brow to jaw that marred his face. This man stared impassively at Mary, and although he made no move towards her she could feel the contained menace in his posture. This man had hurt others before, and he would not hesitate to do so again. 

“You’re not Watson,” one of the sailors said thickly, before being struck upside the head by his companion.

“Of course she’s not Watson, don’t you have eyes?” The second sounded offended at his partner’s idiocy, but Mary wasn’t amused as the man turned a threatening look in her direction. “But I’m sure she could tell us where the dear doctor is.” He fingered his gun impatiently while speaking. 

Mary was momentarily struck by stage fright, but a step forward from one of the lackeys made her start talking quickly. “I have something you want more than Watson.” She injected her voice with all the confidence she secretly lacked, and hoped it would be enough to fool them. 

“Oh really, poppet?” The pirate with the gun had been moving steadily forward, his gaze meandering over Mary’s body the entire while. She tried to repress her shudder of revulsion at this and kept her eyes on the scarred man in back. She was sure if she had to sell her act, it was to him. 

“Yes,” she said shortly, her tension getting the better of her. “And it would be better for you to take what I offer than waste time waiting for Watson to come back.” 

The first pirate seemed confused at that. “Oi, why do we have to wait? Watson’s supposed to be here!”

“Shut up!” snarled the second one, now standing within an arm-length of Mary. “She’s just trying to distract us.” He moved even closer and brushed Mary’s hair away from her shoulder, Mary fought the urge to shy away, or kick him in the groin. 

“If I were you, I would take me to your captain.” Mary said this, faking boredom, while trying desperately to maintain her composure. 

The second man now brought his face dangerously close to Mary’s neck; she could feel his hot breath against her skin and closed her eyes briefly against the surge of loathing and fear. She knew what happened to women captured by pirates, and she was risking her life and safety with this plan. For John, she thought, but before the man could make contact the third pirate spoke up. “Leave her.”

The man backed away with a grimace, but looked at Mary with a promise in his eyes. She shivered now, and hoped the pirates would assume it was from the chill air let in by the open door. 

The second pirate turned back to the scarred man. “What, you want her for yourself?” A hard glare silenced the man, and both pirates backed away from Mary as the leader stepped forward. Mary stood her ground as he approached and matched his gaze, hoping she was still projecting cocky confidence. 

The scarred man abruptly grabbed her chin and forced her head back, looking closely at her face, before dropping his hand and stepping back. “Let’s go.” He said shortly, before walking towards the door. 

“What, that’s it?” The first pirate let slip. 

The scarred man turned before he reached the door, and for the first time smiled. Mary thought she had never seen anything so threatening in all her life. 

“She wants to talk to the captain. I’m sure he could use the entertainment.” He had stopped smiling before he finished, and without another word he walked out the door, Mary and her two menacing shadows trailing behind. 

~~~~~~

Mary would have been excited to set foot on a ship again in any other circumstances. While she had not enjoyed being kept below deck her memories of her last voyage were rather fond and exciting. Her only feeling while climbing aboard the dark ship of her nightmares was bone-shaking dread. 

The ship was busy, obviously getting ready to set sail at a moment’s notice. A bit unnecessary, Mary thought. No one in town had given her or her captors a moment’s notice with the panic of fire spreading; she doubted anyone had given much notice to the extra ship in the harbor. 

There was something strange about this picture, she thought beneath the tenor of terror weaving through her thoughts. Normally, pirates would attack a town with everything they had, guns and cannons blazing. Instead this ship was quiet, as quiet as a ship could be with crew hurrying to their duties, at least. This only confirmed her suspicions that the strange man in John’s cell was right; this was a trip made solely for recovering the medallion. 

The rest of the crew gave Mary and her captors a wide berth, although Mary received several interested stares and knowing leers. Mary kept her chin high; she might die from this, but by God, she would not die without her dignity. She prayed that this would work, that, if anything, she would be able to spare John from what might have been his fate. 

While the crew had been quiet, they suddenly went silent and still, allowing Mary to hear someone descend the aft stairs and come towards them. Mary felt a strong grip on her shoulder before she was thrust forward towards the approaching man. 

When the captain finally came into view Mary was surprised, and then instantly hoped it hadn’t shown on her face. Rather than a carbon copy of her scarred captor, the head of the ship was a short, slender man, dressed in formal wear that would have looked at home on a member of Parliament. Only the man’s eyes gave a hint as to his unsavory profession. They looked not menacing, but dead, devoid of mercy or patience. She only hoped the man in John’s cell knew what he was talking about. 

“Captain Moriarty.” Mary said boldly, not waiting for him to address her. If she was going to die here it would matter little how polite she was. “I believe I have something you want.”

The man before her, well, there was no other word for it, giggled. High pitched laughing, soon echoed by his whole crew, so that Mary was surrounded by mockery. The man abruptly stopped laughing and silence descended once more. When he spoke his voice was soft and light, carefree, in any other circumstance. “Why do you think you would have anything of worth to offer me?” 

His mockery was clear in his tone, but a threat lurked beneath it as well. Mary was sure that others before her had had reason to regret wasting this man’s time.

Mary reached for her necklace calmly and, breaking the chain, held the medallion up. “Interested parties told me you were searching for this.” She said this with only a momentary mental hesitation; she didn’t want to bring attention to the man who had warned her, but no one here would believe she had known of Moriarty for years. 

The crew had stilled even more, if possible. She had the rapt attention of an audience more dangerous than any a theater had ever seen. She would never worry about stage fright again, she thought sarcastically, and nearly laughed from the emotions that had been playing havoc with her nerves. 

Moriarty had hardly moved since she had held up the medallion, but his eyes had grown darker as the silence between them held. He looked away from the medallion and stared into Mary’s eyes for a long moment, but she had to break away from his gaze; the darkness there was too unnerving. She looked up again, and to her surprise the man was now smiling cheerfully. 

“Interested parties. Yes, I can believe that.” Moriarty looked over her shoulder at the impassive, scarred man. “She was at the doctor’s house?” He asked, his voice still light and injected with something jovial. 

The man must have nodded for Moriarty grinned and clapped his hands. Mary was more unnerved by this display of emotion than his menace before; she was missing something in this exchange, and Moriarty’s reactions only made her more confused. But before she had time to think the captain had started speaking in a rush of words. 

“Excellent. I always knew he’d come back; he never could cope with unfinished business. Seb, please let the crew know of our departure, tell them to expect armed pursuit.” He spun, literally spun, in a circle of what was some strange parody of glee. “Oh, thank you, darling, you don’t know how pleased you have made me.” He looked back at Mary, and although his face was animated with emotion his eyes were just as void as they had been before. Before Mary could move he had reached out and plucked the medallion from Mary’s numb fingers. “I do hope you’ll be around for the finale, it’s always nice to have an audience for genius!”

Mary was frozen in place; this wasn’t how it was supposed to go! She was supposed to escape, or have time to bargain, Oh John, what have I done?

“Someone please escort this young lady to Miss Adler’s cabin; I’m sure she’ll be well taken of there.” Moriarty gazed with fascination at the medallion that rotated gently, dangling from Mary’s chain. Mary felt hands pull her across the deck and heard a last word from a man she feared she had underestimated.

“A fine start to our problem, yes, the final problem…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His insufferable cellmate sighed, but took a seat on the floor. Small victories, John thought, as he slid down the opposite wall to join him. “Now, is there anything you feel like sharing with me?”
> 
> “Your limp is psychosomatic,” Sherlock said immediately, before hugging his knees to his chest, looking to the world like a petulant child told to sit in the corner and think about what he’d done wrong.
> 
> John and Sherlock bonding, arguing and escaping. It's a long chapter, my apologies. I'm excited for the next chapter, some major deviation from the Pirates plot but I felt it was needed for the story.

Sherlock was pacing. Again. 

John stared vacantly at the wall of the cell, its surface broken by a thin bar of light. He’d spent a nearly sleepless night in the dungeon, only nodding off for an hour before being interrupted by his manic cellmate who had progressed from complete silence to constant motion. 

John hoped the man’s near frantic shuffling would produce actual results, like a plan to escape this jail cell before John cracked and tried to kill him. For God’s sake, only a few hours ago a twitch from John would be met by furious scolding. “Stop moving, John, you’re ruining my concentration.” 

And that had been the nicest insult. When John had had the audacity to stretch his arms and legs Sherlock, who had been lying flat, hands tucked beneath his chin in a prayer-like pose, had snapped, “Stop making noise. Even an idiot like you should be able to manage that.”

John had been tempted to snap back at the insufferable man, but he held his tongue and reluctantly resumed his seat. Thankfully he had dozed off, until the pacing started. 

Six steps, turn, six steps, turn. It had been hours since their capture; surely a man as smart as Sherlock could have thought up an escape plan by now.

And he was smart, a genius, if John were forced to speak the truth. Horribly rude and invasive, yes, but brilliant. John still couldn’t muddle through how Sherlock had known so much about his past, or his motivations for leaving England. He had made sure the only one who knew what he was doing was himself, but this stranger had cut through his mind and recovered the truth without batting an eye. 

Sherlock had certainly not revealed what he knew well, but John found he could not fault him. All he could muster toward the man was a faint sense of disapproval; like one would feel if they had to reprimand a small child for doing something they hadn’t realized was wrong. Well, that feeling, plus a healthy dose of awe, interest, and the tiniest smudge of appreciation. 

It wasn’t that he liked the man, John told himself. He was just … intrigued. He wouldn’t mind spending more time with him, getting to know just how Sherlock had sussed out his history, maybe learning more about the man himself. 

John glanced sideways at his still moving companion. Sherlock’s hair had gained volume since drying out, curling wildly and twitching with his head’s sharp movements. John thought fancifully that it seemed an extension of Sherlock’s emotions; as frazzled and twitchy as the man was. Sherlock had kept his eyes closed since he had gone to his “Mind Palace,” whatever that meant, and John found himself regretting not seeing those eyes in more detail. They were a unique color; John would have liked to study them up close…

But this was all besides the point. 

The point of all this was that John would love to learn more about his cellmate and, more pertinently, needed to know more about their plan for escape. And for that, he needed to get the man to communicate, more than telling him occasionally to “Stop thinking, John, it’s annoying.”

“Must be going well,” John said abruptly.

Sherlock continued pacing, but a tightening of his brow and a slight hum of annoyance showed he had heard. 

“I’d say you’re making good progress,” John continued, sure to keep his voice light and cheery. “Although, maybe I should help.”

Sherlock’s patience must have snapped, for the pacing stopped and he glared in John’s direction. “What on earth are you blathering about?”

John smiled, glad he had redirected the man’s ruthless energy. “The tunnel, of course. At the rate you’re pacing we should be through the first layer of stone within a decade or so.”

Sherlock just scowled, but before he could start pacing again John stood and grabbed his arm, wincing a bit at the ache of his leg and shoulder. “Just. Stop, alright? You can think for the next few minutes sitting down.”

Sherlock seemed to have paused, both in his thinking and moving, and John realized he was still holding onto Sherlock’s arm. He dropped it quickly and Sherlock spoke as if nothing had happened. “Movement helps me think when I have nothing else to occupy me. So, I suggest you move away and let me do my work.”

John stepped away, but refused to back down. “Tiring yourself out won’t do either of us any good. How do you expect to outrun guards if you’re collapsing from exhaustion? You didn’t even eat any of our meal last night!”

“I ate yesterday, and the food they provided was practically inedible.” John had to concede that point, but any food was better than nothing. “Anyway, digestion slows me down; bad for brain work.”

John raised his brow at that. He would be stuck with a genius who didn’t have a clue how to do normal things, like how to not insult people and pass out from self-neglect. “Right. Well. Any time you’d like to include me in our escape plan, let me know. I’m not the only one stuck in here.”

His insufferable cellmate sighed, but took a seat on the floor. Small victories, John thought, as he slid down the opposite wall to join him. “Now, is there anything you feel like sharing with me?” 

“Your limp is psychosomatic,” Sherlock said immediately, before hugging his knees to his chest, looking to the world like a petulant child told to sit in the corner and think about what he’d done wrong.

“My limp is … what?” 

“Psychosomatic.” Sherlock said, not quite looking John in the eye. “It means that your limp is not being caused by a physical injury, but rather by a psychological factor. Your mind creates the pain as if the injury is still present. Much harder to treat; but not impossible.”

John had never heard the term before, but it certainly sounded on the cutting edge of medical terminology. John narrowed his eyes, not giving voice to the automatic praise echoing in the back of his head. How did this man know so much about, well, everything? From his talking and bearing he could be a member of high society; John could certainly see him being present at salons in France, talking technological innovations and politics with the best. Yet he looked and acted like, well, a pirate. Perhaps a high-brow pirate, but the fact remained that they had gotten into prison after the man had pulled a gun against John’s head. 

John had to ask. “Who are you?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment; then looked John straight in the eye. Even in the gloom and shadows John could sense the strength of his gaze; feel the intellect of this strange man focus on him. Perhaps John should be frightened of what Sherlock was reading in him, but he felt only a slight adrenaline rush. After all, his cellmate was nothing if not dangerous.

“That’s a question for another time,” Sherlock said slowly. “But that’s not the question you really want answered.” 

John smirked. “Obviously. But are you going to give me an answer either way?”

John saw the slightest hint of a smile in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before he replied. “Maybe.”

John rolled his eyes, then gave in. “Have you come up with a plan of escape?”

Sherlock straightened, unfolding his legs and pushing himself upright in one smooth motion. John had to fight the surge of jealous anger at the ease of the movement. 

“I’ve had a plan for hours, John.” Sherlock was dusting off his outfit, catering to his vanity even in a circumstance as desperate as this. He was rather … thorough … while brushing across his clothing, John noted as he stood and turned to hide his slight blush. Not the time Watson, he thought sternly.

Sherlock continued, joining John near the entry to their cell. “I’ve just been waiting for the opportune moment.” He finished, on time with the groan of the jail door and the approach of guards. 

Sherlock moved close to John, and his mouth found John’s ear as he whispered, “Follow my lead, John. We’re escaping now.” John shivered in anticipation, but of what he wasn’t sure. 

The torchlight threw the bar’s relief across both men’s faces as the guards moved in closer. Sherlock had retreated to lean against the wall again, the picture of lazy repose to all who cared to look. John tried to look casual while mimicking the pose, but felt he would need a lot more practice to become even half as good as Mary or Sherlock. 

The guards strode into view; their friends from the dock again, this time absent a visitor. From the plate and pitcher in Clarkie’s hands it seemed breakfast was served. 

They seemed to be distracted. John had heard them whispering frantically before they turned the corner, although he hadn’t caught any words before they rounded the corner. Sherlock, however, seemed intrigued by what he had heard, brow furrowed in concentration and hands tapping the wall behind his back. 

“Right boys. We’ve got your last meal. Back up and don’t make any sudden moves.” Hopkins unlocked the cell door, holding his rifle loosely in his hand while swinging the door inward. Sherlock looked at John, tilting his head the tiniest amount towards Clarkie. John nodded his head in agreement. 

Hopkins had barely cleared the door before John and Sherlock leaped into action. In a moment John had Clarkie pinned against the door frame; cane pressing against his windpipe. Clarkie clearly had not been expecting this move as his throat bobbed nervously, eyes wide with shock. John distantly registered the dull clatter of the things Clarkie had been carrying; he was far more interested in how Sherlock had handled the other guard. 

John cautiously turned his head and was immediately reassured. Sherlock had Hopkins well in hand, borrowed bayonet resting above the guard’s heart, denting the uniform, while Hopkins struggled for air on the cell floor. Sherlock must have knocked the wind out of him, John thought. “Alright?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock said, sounding as composed as if he had just wakened from a nap. “Always a pleasure, Hopkins,” he continued, gazing down at the guard with a vaguely disgusted expression. “Do us the favor of repeating what you told our mutual friend Clarkie on the way to our cell.”

Hopkins glared upward at Sherlock, his defiance clear as he tightened his closed mouth. John glanced up to see how Sherlock would react and was surprised to see the man smile, all teeth and menace. “I thought as much.” Sherlock pressed a little harder with his weapon, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the guard. “We’ll have to do this the hard way.”

John was about to interrupt, but his young prisoner jumped in with a squeaky “Stop!” Sherlock turned with a blank face towards them both. 

“Start talking,” Sherlock said; no emotion in his voice. John felt a sudden chill. He wasn’t sure he liked this side of the man he’d spent the last day with. 

Clarkie sucked in a quick breath and started talking, despite the glare Hopkins leveled at him. “There was a fire in town last night. Everyone’s been trying to fix the damage, but some houses are burned to the ground.” Clarkie paused, darting a terrified glance at Sherlock. “No one knows how it started.”

Sherlock hummed, and from the twitch of his hands John knew he was fighting to bring them into his “thinking” pose. Instead, Sherlock focused on Clarkie; although John noted his weapon didn’t move an inch out of place.

“That’s not all, is it Clarkie? Something else had stirred up the fort, more than a case of arson would.” 

John felt Clarkie swallow against the unyielding line of his cane. “Arson, sir?”

“Surely you didn’t think the fires last night were an accident?” Sherlock sounded smug; John could have hit him across the head. Bad enough they were threatening guards and scaring them half to death, now he had to mock them?

“Get to the point, Sherlock.” John gritted out. His shoulder was starting to ache again.

“Fine.” Sherlock had the audacity to sound put out, like he had missed the opportunity to show off. “The fires last night were planned, which no doubt explains the extensive damage that is now occupying most of the fort’s soldiers in clean up duties. But they were also a distraction, to draw eyes and minds away from the true crime of the night.”

“Which was?” John asked impatiently.

“Miss Morstan’s gone missing.” Clarkie gasped, sounding on the edge of hyperventilation. 

John paused, feeling somewhat faint as he took in this information. Mary missing, after the town was sabotaged, Mary was missing, Mary was gone, Mary was…

“She’s not dead, John.” Sherlock’s voice brought John back from his hazy thoughts, gave him something solid to focus on. He sounded so sure, but there was something foreboding lurking under his words. 

“How do you know, Sherlock? She could have been caught in the fire, she could be ashes, oh God…”

“John. Calm down. Mary’s not dead, she’s been kidnapped.” Sherlock’s voice had softened, sounding calm and soothing. John didn’t trust it for a second. 

“Kidnapped? By who?” 

Sherlock had clearly lost his patience with the whole situation as he sighed. “Moriarty, of course. You were there for our conversation yesterday, were you not?”

Clarkie had once again drawn in a quick breath; John loosened the press of his cane minutely but did not lower his stance. “Sherlock, just because you said something about this character yesterday does not mean I know anything more about him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, this would be much simpler if you would make an effort to understand.”

“Well Sherlock, I might be more understanding if someone hadn’t kept me up all night pacing. Better yet, I might have a bloody clue what’s going on if SOMEONE would bother to tell me ANYTHING AT ALL!” John finished, nearly shouting and red in the face with constrained emotion. The bloody nerve of this man, he was lucky John had his hands occupied at the moment…

Sherlock was staring at John as if he had never seen him before. He looked fascinated, and perhaps a touch apprehensive. He carried on in a much more cautious tone. Damn right you should be nervous, John thought viciously. “John. I will make sure to inform you of pertinent details soon, but I suggest we make our escape while we still have a chance. Is this acceptable?” This, combined with Sherlock’s tentatively apologetic face, made John’s temper recede as soon as it had come, and he nodded solemnly.

“Good!” Sherlock acted as though an obstacle had been surmounted; practically vibrating with renewed energy. “Now. Hopkins, you’re going to help in our daring escape, as you have helped already, Clarkie. John, take your clothes off.”

It took John a solid minute before he could think up a response.

~~~~~~

“This is ridiculous. It’ll never work.” 

“Of course it will work. We got out of the fort, didn’t we?”

“Getting out of the fort is very different from stealing a ship, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waved his hand at John to silence him. John scowled, but shrank into the shadows beneath the bridge, watching Sherlock and the dock beyond. While the soldiers in port were mostly occupied with continuing fire brigades there was a steady stream of sailors making their way down the dock towards the Interceptor, loading goods and making ready for the voyage. If John was still in jail he would have been waiting to join the luggage on the ship, but now…

“Sherlock, please explain to me what we’re doing.”

Sherlock was still avidly watching the dock and surroundings, and didn’t seem amused by John’s interruption. “We’re going to sneak aboard the ship, then we’re going to sail it out of port. I don’t get hanged, you don’t get shipped back home. It’s a mutually beneficial situation. Now shush.”

John scowled, snagged his recently acquired coat on the rough brick of the archway, and scowled some more. Sherlock’s plan to escape prison had worked like a charm, helped by the panic caused by the fires and John’s performance. Thankfully, Hopkins had been close to John’s height, John thought, otherwise he might not have been able to pull off the garb of the soldier. They had left the pair of guards locked in their cell; Hopkins lacking his regimental gear. No one had spared the new guard and his prisoner a second glance, even when they had left the confines of the fort. 

It could be said the plan was working perfectly. But John wasn’t so sure his disguise would hold up under scrutiny, especially if they had to engage with other soldiers. And the constant worry for Mary was dragging in the back of his mind. Just because she had been kidnapped didn’t mean she wasn’t being hurt. For all he knew her captors could have decided she was not worth the extra effort and tossed her overboard. 

“Stop worrying, John.” Sherlock, as per usual, seemed to have picked up John’s train of thought as easily as reading a letter. “Moriarty won’t kill Mary. In fact, he won’t even hurt her. She’s far too valuable for that.”

“How…” John was cut off by the sound of boots crossing above their hiding place. Both men looked up through the slats of the bridge before relaxing as the soldiers moved on. 

“All in good time, John,” Sherlock said, smirking to himself while taking out his telescope and looking further out in the bay towards the Dauntless, soon to be vessel of the Commodore. John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, watching the dappled light illuminate different shades of brown and red in his curly hair. It was either admire or strangle at this point and, God help him, John couldn’t afford to lose his chance at freedom by losing his temper with this man. He ignored the faint voice in his mind that whispered that he wouldn’t have hurt Sherlock anyway. 

Sherlock swiftly folded his telescope and turned back to John, face intent and only inches from his own. John fought to urge to breath in and met Sherlock’s eyes. “John. What are you prepared to do to escape from here? How far would you go to rescue Miss Morstan?”

“I’d die for her,” John said without hesitation. Sherlock held his gaze and nodded once, then turned away once more.

“Oh good, glad to know you can commit. When I give the word we are going to hurry to that dock, commandeer the Interceptor and sail out of port. We can move on with the plan from there.” 

John spluttered behind Sherlock’s turned back. What Sherlock was proposing was treason, earning death and disgrace if they were caught. It was ridiculous; how on earth were two men going to sail a ship out from a military port without being captured? John drew a breath to argue, but Sherlock turned once more, giving him a delighted smile. It threw John off guard; how jubilant this man could be in threatening situations. "Could be dangerous,” Sherlock threw out, and John knew he was gone. 

“Lead the way.” John said, a smile creasing his face in response. 

Footsteps sounded once more on the bridge above and Sherlock and John hurried out from the shadows, following behind the procession of guards as they passed in front of the dock. Sherlock darted out from their lines as they passed, John at his heels. 

As they approached the gangplank and walked aboard the ship John’s heart started beating a quick but steady rhythm, hands and legs steady as he readied his sword. There were a few men still aboard the ship, but none had yet noticed the two intruders on their vessel. 

As soon as Sherlock and John had set foot on deck Sherlock walked back to the gangplank and shoved it sideways with his boot. The loud clatter of the wood against the hull was strident enough to draw the attention of everyone on the ship. Perfect, John thought, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Now everyone knows we’re here. 

John assumed a fighting stance, instinctively covering Sherlock’s side, back to back. But Sherlock, it seemed, had other plans, as he strode forward towards the soldier in charge of loading the ship and announced. “Afternoon. We’re taking over this ship.”

John fought the urge to laugh as the crew members gathered round, laughing at the men foolish enough to storm their ship. The commander smirked upward at Sherlock, clearly not intimidated by this move. “Very funny. But it seems to me that you are outnumbered.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John had had just about enough of Sherlock’s talking getting them into trouble. With two strides and a flick of his wrist John had his exposed sword pressed snug against the commander’s throat, daring him to draw a breath. “With all due respect, sir, I’d take his word for it.”

Things went rather smoothly from there. Clearly the leader of this ragtag bunch of sailors wasn’t accustomed to being threatened; he even let his men take orders from Sherlock in order to get the ship underway while John continued to hold him at sword-point. Within a few moments the Interceptor had pulled away from the dock, sails billowing in the breeze and its former crew moping on the dock behind. 

Sherlock had instructed John to take hold of the helm; after he had seen John struggling with the sails he had disgustedly ordered him to steer the ship. “It’s not brain surgery, Doctor,” he had said, before instructing John to aim the ship towards the entrance of the bay. Sherlock was still rushing back and forth across the deck doing nautical things beyond John’s knowledge. Already John could hear the uproar from the dock behind; it was only a matter of time before they would be pursued and caught. 

“Sherlock.” If only the madman would slow for a moment, maybe John could convince him that this plan wasn’t going to work. 

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to John’s spot at the wheel, looking backward towards Port Royal. He could see what John had already noted; several boats were already rowing towards the Dauntless; the larger ship would be ready for pursuit in a matter of minutes. 

“Congratulations, doctor. You’ve just successfully stolen one of Her Majesty’s finest vessels after escaping from jail.” John glanced up at Sherlock, whose eyes were shining with enthusiasm. In the afternoon light they were vibrant, all the colors of the sea and more besides. John could get lost within their depths, so he looked away and back towards their pursuers. 

“You’re not worried about them?” John asked, adrenaline making his voice deeper than usual as he nodded towards the shore.

Sherlock shook his head, taking deep breaths from his exertion on deck. “I was productive before I found you yesterday. I managed to sneak aboard the Dauntless and disable the rudder chain. She’ll be dead in the water until they can find a good blacksmith to fix her.” 

John stared at Sherlock before he broke down into laughter, breathless giggles as he rode the residual adrenaline high. He was pleasantly surprised when he heard Sherlock’s deep voice chuckling along with his own. “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as a small but completely genuine smile curved his mouth. “And you started a fight inside a military fort.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze and felt a little flutter in his chest. He put it from his mind before looking away towards the horizon, putting Port Royal behind him for good. “I had excellent reasons. Their drinks were terrible.”

Sherlock let out a sharp laugh at that, then quieted. “I was right.” He said triumphantly. John turned back to look at him with a raised brow, but Sherlock looked down, not at the dock, but at John’s legs. John looked down as well and realized that for the first time in a very long while he felt no pain from his leg. He took a tentative step forward, then a step back. No pain.

John looked up in awe at Sherlock, struggling to deal with his flood of emotions. He settled for expressing the most simple. “Thank you," he said, hoping the words would communicate just how much this meant to him. "How did you know what would fix it?”

Sherlock smiled again. “Adrenaline. You dislike feeling helpless, so I gave you purpose. A bit of a fight didn’t hurt either.”

John thought that that was the most ridiculous statement he’d ever heard; even more so because it was completely true. “You’re insane, you know that? Do you really enjoy risking your life like that; we could have died!” His criticism didn’t hold any weight since he couldn’t stop smiling. After-effects of the adrenaline, he told himself. 

“I did say it was dangerous; yet here you are.” Sherlock winked at John before leaping down the stairs, John smiling helplessly after him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s angry face was morphing slowly but surely into fury. “Oh, so you’ll only answer questions you want to answer, is that it?”
> 
> Sherlock gave him his most condescending smile. “Finally, John, we seem to be on the same page.”
> 
> John and Sherlock, on a boat! Some fighting and introspection. Alternating Sherlock and John POV. This chapter was getting ridiculously long so I'm going to break it up between this and the next. What can I say, I like the buddy-bonding going on on the Interceptor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the extreme lateness of this chapter. School is out of control, and will likely be that way until December. As such, I won't make any guarantees on when chapters will be arriving. I do solemnly swear that I will keep working on this though; I've got too many plans for upcoming chapters to let it go to waste. If nothing else I'll have plenty of time to catch up over winter break. I hope all of your schedules aren't as crazy as mine.
> 
> Bon Voyage!

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Hey! Sherlock!”

“Mmm?” Sherlock blinked, squinting against the haze of afternoon sunlight. “What is it?”

“It’s your turn to take the wheel.” John sounded annoyed. Sherlock closed his eyes against the strain of focusing and rested his head against the side of the ship. Maybe if he didn’t reply John would stop complaining.

A shadow blocked the light across Sherlock’s face and he looked up to see John glaring at him. He could tell already that this was going to be an expression John’s face would wear well and often around him. He blinked slowly to buy some time. Perhaps he could play up his head wound…

“Oh no, Sherlock. You’re not getting out of this. Someone needs to make sure the ship doesn’t run aground somewhere. And I gave you your nap time, now I deserve some as well.”

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise. He hadn’t realized he had dozed off; surely he had only closed his eyes for a few moments. Once again his transport was proving to be a trouble. The sun was nearing the horizon; he must have been out for an hour at least. Unacceptable. And he had left a complete incompetent in charge of their route; he would have to recalculate. No doubt they had lost a day’s time on their journey. 

But there was no need to let John know all this. Instead, he bounded to his feet, making John stumble back and nearly trip over the cargo still stacked across the deck. “Yes, of course. Help yourself to some rest, doctor, we’ve a two day journey ahead of us.” Sherlock strode over to the helm and immediately adjusted the ship’s aim. Based on their position and the sun’s they would need an extra day to make the journey. Time was not a luxury when dealing with Moriarty, and Sherlock’s impromptu nap had cost them. 

John had followed Sherlock to the wheel and Sherlock found himself tracking the man’s movements from the corner of his eye. John was pacing agitatedly, hands bunched at his sides and jaw clenched tight. If he turned his head he could no doubt see the torturously slow progression of John’s thoughts as they coalesced. Sherlock kept his head fixed forward, not giving into the temptation to study his partner-in-crime further. If given enough time the doctor would voice whatever problems he was contemplating, Sherlock would dismiss them, and they would pass the two day journey in relative peace. 

John came to a stop, but instead of a vocal intrusion onto Sherlock’s consciousness he was interrupted by a physical one; John’s hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk, Sherlock,” John said, his voice grave. 

Sherlock had not been prepared for John to touch him, and like the arm hold in the cell earlier that day he found himself startled by his own reaction. Goosebumps spread from the point of contact, and his instinctive shiver was barely kept in check by his restraint. Sherlock quickly shrugged John’s hand away. The doctor was already becoming quite the mental problem and he had no plans to make that distraction include anything physical. 

“Later, John,” Sherlock said dismissively. Hopefully the doctor would take the offered time for rest; Sherlock hadn’t quite thought out what to tell the doctor about this whole venture. “You need to rest, and I need to plan. You can ask questions tomorrow.” There, problem solved. 

“Oh no.” John said; sounding resolute and the tiniest bit demanding. “You’re going to answer my questions now.” He had shifted his grip from Sherlock’s shoulder to the wheel, holding it firmly in place. Sherlock gave it an experimental tug but John moved in closer, bracing against Sherlock’s hold. John’s body had shifted closer as well; Sherlock could feel the heat as John’s core almost pressed against his own.

No. Stop. Focus. Sherlock released his grip on the wheel and took a step back, turning away and hoping the slight flush on his neck could be interpreted as sunburn. “Fine,” he spat. “Ask your questions.” He sounded petulant even to his own ears, but he couldn’t care less at the moment. 

John had the gall to sound smug when he spoke. “Good. But we’re doing this my way for once. So, turn around.”

Sherlock turned slowly, giving John the most murderous glare he could manage. John just smiled placidly back at him, clearly enjoying having some control over the detective. Sherlock crossed his arms tightly across his chest. If John wanted to get answers he’d have to fight for them. 

“What are you planning?”

Sherlock blinked, then frowned. “Pass.”

John frowned back at him. “No. That’s not how this works, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sneered back at him. “I’ll answer your questions, but only if you phrase them in a direct and specific manner.”

John’s angry face was morphing slowly but surely into fury. “Oh, so you’ll only answer questions you want to answer, is that it?”

Sherlock gave him his most condescending smile. “Finally, John, we seem to be on the same page.” 

John took a menacing step forward. “No, Sherlock. We’ve never been on the same page because you’ve never told me a goddamn thing about your plans. Even when they involved me. Even when we might have been killed.” John was drawing closer, murder in his eyes. Sherlock wondered distractedly how it was possible that John’s presence loomed over him, despite John being several inches shorter. 

“So far I have gone along with every crazy thing you’ve suggested. And I’ve followed you willing, because I knew you would get us out of jail. But we’re not in jail anymore.” John had been steadily walking forward but Sherlock hadn’t noticed he had been retreating until the railing hit his lower back. Abruptly Sherlock felt nervous, then quashed the feeling relentlessly.

“You won’t hurt me.” Sherlock said this confidently, although a faint feeling of unease remained. “You owe me.”

John’s had been leaning into Sherlock’s space, his anger clearly marked in his eyes, but at Sherlock’s words his expression shuttered, and his looming presence diminished. Sherlock thought back on what he had said, but it didn’t seem his words could have caused John to retreat in this manner. If he didn’t know better he would think John had been hurt by his words. But that was ridiculous. 

John took a breath and moved back further from Sherlock. “Yes, I do.” John said softly, as if to himself. As quickly as it had surfaced John’s anger seemed to have retreated, leaving only exhaustion and uncertainty in its wake. Sherlock was struck by a thought. He didn’t like John like this. In fact, he’d prefer anger over this almost-depression. 

John seemed to have collected his thoughts but kept them to himself, turning away from Sherlock and making his way down the deck. “That’s it?” Sherlock said, too quickly to stop himself from voicing his thought aloud. 

John paused, but did not turn. Oh, how Sherlock wished he would turn, if only so he might observe his face. “Yes. For now.” John said flatly before continuing away from the helm.

Sherlock moved back to the wheel, moving the ship closer to the needed trajectory, but kept his gaze on John’s retreating back. John had sounded wrong, defeated, as he left. Sherlock knew he had caused that change of voice with his evasive silence. Logically he knew why he couldn’t answer John at this time, why it was better to keep the doctor in the dark. But Sherlock couldn’t help feel a pang of self-loathing cross his chest as he watched his disheartened doctor disappear into the depths of the ship. 

~~~~~~

**Day One**

I found this journal in the cargo hold. Some unlucky sailor must have packed it in recently; I doubt he would have kept this much clothes and valuables aboard if they weren’t going to depart right away. Thank God, I don’t think I could have stomached wearing the uniform for much longer. 

Anyway, I thought I’d write down what’s happening here. Not like I have anything else to do. I’m sure as hell not going back above deck to deal with Sherlock Bloody Holmes right now. 

What a self-absorbed wanker. Can you believe he refused to tell me where we were going? After I helped break the man out of jail! Well, perhaps he could have managed that part on his own, but still… 

This is ridiculous. I remember Mary telling me about doing this when she was stuck in her cabin, before picking me up, of course. She said she didn’t have much of a literary career going for her. I bet her journal’s a right sight better than mine, anyway. 

I’ve got a pile of things set to move up on deck. Blankets, food, that sort of thing. I found the water supply, thank God, I was dying of thirst. I wonder… 

No. If the git wants something he can get it himself. 

I’d made up my mind before, you know. Had him cornered, ready to grill him for answers. And I deserve those answers, damn it. I risk my life and he doesn’t even bother to explain what’s going on, much less who it is that’s taken Mary. Not even why they’ve taken Mary, good God, I’ve taken up with a madman.

I must be mad to trust him. No, I am mad to trust him. But I do. Why do I trust him? But he saved my life, didn’t he? That’s got to count for something.

And then the bastard has to throw that back in my face. And damn if he wasn’t right. I know I shouldn’t have let it get to me. He probably knew just what to say to get me to go away. He knows just how to manipulate people. But…

Well. Next time I won’t take no for an answer. No matter what he says. No matter how it makes me feel.

~~~~~~

John made his way to the deck slowly. Slowly; because he wasn’t thrilled about seeing Sherlock again. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the answers, needed them, in fact. But he was sure that any interaction with the man would only lead to more prevarication on Sherlock’s part and more violent rage on his own. But John was sick and tired of hiding below deck. 

John lurched sideways and paused, foot hovering over the next step. He was almost glad he had the excuse to ascend at this glacial pace, due to the supplies he had found below and was now struggling to keep in his arms. John had decided to go all the way; if he was going to stop hiding he might as well move to the top deck permanently. And if that made Sherlock uncomfortable, well, he could deal with it. 

John couldn’t see much of where he was going, the pile of supplies he had lugged with him was too tall for that, but he could tell the moment he reached the top deck. The air had cooled considerably, a chill breeze rustling the sails above. Night had set in, but a bright gibbous moon lit the deck well enough to show any crates he might trip over. 

John made his way slowly towards the helm, keeping his eyes firmly on the deck to avoid stumbling, and to avoid accidentally catching Sherlock’s gaze. And Sherlock was staring at him; John could feel the weight of his gaze like a heavy jacket across his shoulders. Well. He could stare all he liked; John wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. 

John passed the wheel without a sideways glance and dumped his load unceremoniously on the ground. The wall backing the helm would do nicely for a prop, and with a blanket and some additional cushioning it would make for an adequate bed. John had seen far worse in his regimental days, after all. 

He started sorting through his pile of supplies, moving food and water to one side and clothing to another. Thankfully he had found clothes among the crates below; he was now dressed much like he would in his days as town doctor, with the addition of his miraculously intact boots. He was grateful the man who had left his belongings thought to bring warmer clothes, as another gust of wind made him clutch his jacket closer to him.

He could tell Sherlock was aware of his movements. The man hadn’t moved from his spot, holding the tiller steady, but his focus was clearly on what was happening behind his back. John spared a glance in the man’s direction. He was staring ahead, giving the impression of focus on the ship’s course, but from the tightness in his shoulders and stance he was fighting the impulse to turn. 

John gave a small smirk, before sitting and resting against the wall, huddled into the blankets he had brought. At least he could note this one weakness about Sherlock: his incessant need to know things. John blinked against his tiredness and glanced up at the stars. It wouldn’t be long before Sherlock’s resolve cracked; then hopefully he could get some sleep. 

“John.”

He almost smiled as Sherlock’s weakness was revealed. Perhaps to get answers all he would need to do was remain quiet. He determinedly didn’t reply.

Sherlock drew in a breath that made his spine curve before blowing it out, slumping a bit over the wheel. The movement wasn’t severe, but from a man who prided himself on controlling his “transport” this moment of exhaustion was, well, human of him. John almost pitied him enough to answer. Almost.

“John…” Sherlock obviously meant to continue his train of thought, but shook his head, hair swishing around the nape of his neck with the movement. 

Fuck it, John was too tired to deal with this sort of thing. “Sherlock, can it wait until morning?”

Vocal confirmation seemed to be the catalyst for Sherlock’s attention as he swiftly turned, keeping the wheel in place with his weight. The moon cast subtle shades across the deck, keeping Sherlock’s bright eyes in shadow. When he spoke he seemed tentative. “I had thought you would want to … continue our previous discussion.” 

Sherlock’s arms circled his torso, despite his voluminous coat it seemed he was feeling the weather as well. He stared at the deck, unwilling to make eye contact. He looked as forlorn as a person could be, and while John didn’t doubt for a second that the pose was at least somewhat contrived he didn’t think Sherlock was faking the slightly lost look on his face. He wondered, briefly, whether Sherlock had disliked the lonely interlude after John’s departure as much as he had.

John sighed deeply. He could be angry in the morning. “Yeah, well, we can continue it in the morning. Now get over here before you pass out, I brought up some water.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up quickly, looking at John, eyes widened in disbelief and, John hoped, a tiny bit of relief. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but John cut him off. “Yeah, someone’s got to watch the wheel, but couldn’t we, just, drop anchor or something for the night?”

Sherlock’s face split into a grin; not his delighted smirk at danger, nor his menacing show of teeth. This smile broke across his face and flitted away just as quickly, leaving his eyes crinkled in mirth long after the grin had faded. John rather thought he’d like to make Sherlock smile like that more often. 

He had to remind himself that he was mad at Sherlock, but when the man bounded over to the pile of supplies and proceeded tearing through them in a fit of energy he decided to shelve that particular feeling for the rest of the night. Sherlock had found a water bottle and was chugging greedily at it, so much so that John felt obliged to tell him to take it easy.

“Is that your medical opinion doctor?” Sherlock said this seriously, but a glance his way confirmed that his eyes were still dancing with amusement. The mood swings Sherlock was capable of were causing John to rethink his immediate assumption that Sherlock played his act all the time. No one would be able to keep up such an exhausting switch of facial and vocal cues for so long unless they were in some part genuine. 

John settled back into his nest of blankets while Sherlock rustled through the pile once more, putting the empty water bottle aside. Sherlock seemed to find something of interest as he made a considering hum and stood, making his way toward the wheel. He had a length of cord in his hand, and quickly lashed the wheel tightly to the railing while explaining: “To answer your previous question, it would be impossible to drop anchor at our current location, the depth is far too great to allow our vessel permanent rest.” He tested the strength of his work before turning back. “But since the weather has been holding, and the breeze is steady, it is safe to keep the ship relatively unguided while we both get some rest.”

Sherlock finished, sliding down the wall to rest close to John. He could feel the slight shivers running through Sherlock’s frame and took pity on him. “You can share one of the blankets if you need to.”

John had barely spoken before Sherlock’s hand whipped out, snagging the edge of John’s blanket and pulling the majority of it towards him. John felt the cold air hit his previously covered side and pulled back against Sherlock’s hold. “Oi! I meant you could use one of the other blankets I brought up, you wanker!” 

Sherlock released his grip, looking to his side to see the pile of extra clothes and blankets. “Oh,” he said, in a somewhat surprised voice. “You brought blankets for me.” 

John felt his heart tighten a bit at the unspoken assumption behind those words. He had been very angry when he had gone below, but that didn’t mean he was callous enough to leave Sherlock with nothing. “Of course I did you idiot. Now be quiet, I could use some rest.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said quietly, and John felt his heart clench a bit more before sleep finally claimed him.

~~~~~~

Gunshots rang through the humid air, a muggy heat making waves blur the surroundings. 

“We need a medic over here!” 

John started running, panting against the weight of his weapon and med kit. If only he could see where he was going…

Sweat blurring his vision, shots and screams now, echoing like they were inside of a cave. Why couldn’t he see? He needed to get there, he needed to help.

“John.”

Gunshots, closer now, so loud, deafening in his ears, drowning out the screams and the whisper of long grass against steel. 

“John!”

‘I’m coming.’ He wanted to say, but breath was difficult now. A sharp wave of agony from his shoulder forced his scream to join the others. 

“JOHN! Wake Up!”

John’s eyes shot open, chest heaving from the nightmare. His shoulder ached; probably agitated from the exertion it had been put through recently. He closed his eyes, allowing his senses to come back in waves. 

His back was still pressed against the wall, knees drawn up and trembling slightly. His hands were gripped tightly in fabric, although he was much warmer than he expected. 

As he opened his eyes he realized why. Sherlock was kneeling before him, his hands gripping his shoulders while John’s were curled around his coat. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, enough to see the whites around the edges of his irises. If John was present enough to guess he would have said he had frightened the detective. 

John took in a breath, then realized he was shaking, low level tremors coursing through his limbs. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but knew it would come out shaky and manic if he did. He kept breathing slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and after a moment he was able to release his grip on Sherlock’s coat. 

Sherlock was still looking at John with a worried expression, and while John retreated somewhat Sherlock had yet to release his grip on John’s shoulders. John drew in another breath, then spoke. “I’m fine Sherlock.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock countered immediately, voice sounding normal but with an unsettled look on his face. “You have just made abundantly clear that you are _not_ fine.”

John felt oddly as if their positions were reversed, him comforting Sherlock instead of the other way around. “I am fine, Sherlock. It was just a nightmare. It happens sometimes, to me.”

He didn’t say that he was terrified of the nightmares, but not for the normal reasons. It wasn’t the fighting or injury that worried at his thoughts, it was the absence of purpose; the fact that in all his worst dreams he was always too late, never in the position to be helpful. He was helpless in his dreams, and when he woke it was still his reality. That was what made him wake with his heart in his mouth. 

But this wasn’t the time to dissect his dream. He was sure Sherlock had gotten enough of the picture from his murmurs and thrashes when he was still unconscious. John reached up and loosened Sherlock’s grip; no doubt the man had tried to wake him from his nightmare before it came to its painful conclusion. “I’m sorry I woke you.” He concluded as Sherlock pulled back, leaving cold air to rush in in his absence. 

Sherlock settled against the wall next to John once more, looking thoughtful. “Don’t be silly, John.” He said; mind clearly distracted once more. 

John, strangely, felt comforted by this. He found to his surprise that he’d much rather have Sherlock move on from this moment than linger awkwardly. John felt his head tip towards Sherlock’s shoulder before losing all train of thought.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John, in the interest of…” Sherlock paused; then went on in a more confident tone. “In order to ensure that our cooperation in this venture is to be successful both parties should be informed to the extent that we feel confident in each other’s actions.” 
> 
> John stared at Sherlock for two long seconds of silence. “I … you… what?”
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock finally gives John some answers, John gives some of his own, the plot thickens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I finally discovered where I can put my personal comments! Only took me 9 Chapters! And I added a quote from the chapter! I know, so daring.
> 
> Terribly sorry for the late update, 'tis the season for professors to heap on the projects just in time for the holidays. In the spirit of other people bravely making their way through NaNoWriMo I shall try to work more consistently on future chapters instead of writing them all in one rush.
> 
> I've also got three tentative works in mind, much shorter than this one, but I'll resist posting those until they are fully complete. This one's my priority when I have the time. Thank for the patience!

Sherlock rose gradually from sleep, feeling safe and warm. Strange, considering the night before had held the cool thread of autumn in the wind. Sherlock mentally shrugged and snuggled into the blankets and John. 

Wait. John?

Sherlock’s eyes shot open in mild alarm, but he had enough presence of mind to keep still. Immediately his mind started cataloging the details: right arm, currently wrapped around John’s back, fingers curled protectively over John’s hip, legs relaxed and tangled amid his and John’s blankets, neck and right shoulder currently serving as John’s pillow, nose and cheek tucked into the ruffled hair atop John’s head.

Sherlock felt the first stirrings of panic in the back of his mind, but they were curiously muted. Perhaps because he was so comfortable, he tried to reason, while the rest of his mind urged him to close his eyes and sleep some more. The sun was barely peaking above the horizon; he still had some time. 

John shifted a bit in his sleep, bringing his face closer to Sherlock. Sherlock tensed, and nearly lost composure when John puffed a small sigh against the tender junction of shoulder and neck. He had to bite his lip and shut his eyes tightly to resist the impulse to shiver, especially as John’s last move had left his lips resting gently against Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. Stop. Focus. 

He needed to plan what he was going to say to John in order to make him stay. At the least Sherlock needed John’s cooperation, but to gain it he’d need to cover some of his plan for Moriarty. This day would require most of Sherlock’s capacity to think. He didn’t have time for this … distraction. 

Sherlock gently shifted away from John, inch by inch, until the doctor was snuggled against Sherlock’s blankets instead of Sherlock. He straightened his clothing, still staring at John. As he watched, John snuggled closer to the blankets and breathed a sigh of contentment. Sherlock found himself smiling and then shook his head, turning back toward the wheel and their course. He would need to correct their route again, but it wouldn’t take much out of their traveling time. 

And if Sherlock noticed his hand wandering to where John’s head had rested; well, it was nothing more than a physical impulse. 

~~~~~~

A tapping sound drew John from the deepest sleep he had had in months. John thought sluggishly that it was strange he had gotten such good sleep on a boat, out in the open. His mind hazily focused on a feeling of heat wrapped around him and a comforting smell, but his thoughts faded as the tapping sound grew louder. 

John’s mind picked up at that. Only one person could be making such an intrusive noise that would drive him from his rest and make him instantly angry.

“Sherlock. Do you have to be this obnoxious this early in the morning?”

John heard a pause in the tapping before it resumed, louder than before. “Bored.”

John’s eyes squinted open; morning light causing them to water slightly. Sherlock sat, back against the wheel, John’s cane held in his hand and tapping gently against the planks of the deck. He seemed to be following a pattern, one, two, one one, two, four three, back to one. John’s eye distractedly followed the tip of his cane against the wood, feeling the slight vibrations as it bounced along, guided by Sherlock’s fancy. 

John’s mind finally caught up, and he glared at Sherlock’s face. His angry retort was cut a bit short by Sherlock’s look; the git had the audacity to grin at him, as if amused by John’s attention. And damn him if Sherlock looking amused didn’t wipe almost all his anger away. 

John groaned half-heartedly and buried his face in the blankets. He breathed in, the half-remembered smell struggling to connect to a memory of last night… “For future reference, just because you are bored does not mean you can play an imaginary piano using _my_ cane.” 

Sherlock stopped tapping completely, and as John turned his head he caught sight of Sherlock’s mildly surprised look before it was swept under the neutral expression he wore most. “Yes, well, it’s not like you have need of the cane anymore.” 

John waited patiently, but it seemed that Sherlock was thinking deeply about what to say next, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wondered absently whether the madman had this sort of problem often, knowing exactly what to say but having problems expressing it. He realized his eyes had traveled down the man’s exposed neck to linger at his nervously bobbing Adam’s apple and quickly glanced away. 

“John, in the interest of…” Sherlock paused; then went on in a more confident tone. “In order to ensure that our cooperation in this venture is to be successful both parties should be informed to the extent that we feel confident in each other’s actions.” 

John stared at Sherlock for two long seconds of silence. “I … you… what?”

Sherlock seemed to have regained his former demeanor as he went on in a supremely condescending tone. “Come now John, surely you see the benefits of coming to a mutual understanding?”

“A mutual understanding about what?” John was rather proud that his voice sounded relatively even.

“About us, John.” Sherlock replied, as if this wasn’t a ridiculously loaded statement, as if the mere mention of what John had been feeling for the man didn’t make him want to hide and roll into a protective ball. John decided to take the defensive route. 

“I really don’t think there’s anything to discuss.” He said firmly, although he thought this to himself in a much more desperate manner. There wasn’t anything to discuss. He and Sherlock barely knew each other; there was hardly anything there that merited a … understanding, or anything like it. 

Sherlock frowned and went on, sounding cranky about the whole situation. “Of course there’s something to discuss. You practically threw me overboard for implying I didn’t want to discuss anything.”

John’s mind immediately jumped tracks. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about them. He wanted to talk about their disagreement. John felt a rush of relief and anger which almost overwhelmed a feeling of disappointment. Almost. 

“So. Discuss.” John said shortly. If Sherlock thought John was going to take the lead in this conversation he was sorely mistaken.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable with the situation, but gamely went on. “You expressed a desire to know what I was planning.”

“Yes. So, what are you planning?”

“It’s … complicated.” He hurried on at a threatening look from John. “I’m going to talk about it! I just, I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Start at the beginning, then.” John said humorlessly. 

Sherlock folded his hands below his chin and closed his eyes, thinking deeply. John gazed at him, fascinated at the facial movements that showed the man’s mind at work. Sherlock had an exceptionally expressive face when he wasn’t so guarded. 

John could tell immediately when Sherlock had come to a conclusion; the scrunched look of utter concentration smoothed out, leaving his face calm and almost serene. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight into John’s for a moment before speaking.

“No doubt you have many questions on your mind, but it might be beneficial for you to know a bit about me before we move onto my, plans, as you put it.” 

John’s surprise at this start must have shown on his face, for Sherlock paused and gave him a small but sincere smile. “No need to look surprised John; it’s only fair that I level the playing field. After all, I know all about you already.”

John snorted at that, but motioned for Sherlock to continue. 

“Well, you already know my name, Sherlock Holmes. You might be confused as to my profession; even though any idiot could figure it out. I’m what you might call a consulting detective.”

John couldn’t help but interrupt. “A consulting detective?”

“Yes, John, now shush. I’m trying to explain. You wouldn’t have heard of the term since I invented the job. It means that whenever law enforcement run across something they can’t solve, or someone has a problem that requires … unorthodox … ways of solution, I step in.” 

John was a bit baffled at that. “So, you work for the government?”

Sherlock jerked away from John and looked positively furious. John quickly held up his hands in apology and did some quick backtracking. “Sorry! It’s just, I’ve not heard that the government needed help.”

Sherlock seemed mollified at that, and settled back with a smirk. “John, the government always needs help, especially with my brother messing up things.”

John’s eyebrows rose at that. “You have a brother? Who’s in government?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please John, he practically is the government. But that is beside the point.” Sherlock leaned forward, clearly trying to get his point across. “I am the man people go to when they have issues that cannot be resolved by the government, when the mysteries are too complex and the situations too dire. And while my methods are not, strictly speaking, legal, I operate beyond the ties that bind people to due process. And this is why I have a … certain reputation.”

John furrowed his brow while he absorbed this. “So, you aren’t a pirate.”

Sherlock smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. I am much more than a pirate. Although I do resort to piratical means if necessary.”

Brilliant, John thought; then realized by Sherlock’s crinkled eyes that he had said it out loud. It seemed the detective had two weaknesses then, curiosity and flattery. Perhaps praise shouldn’t have been John’s immediate reaction to the news that his shipmate occasionally played a pirate, but the idea of helping people, despite and against the rules, was so wonderfully dangerous and reactive that he couldn’t have thought of it as anything less than perfect. 

John tilted his head as Sherlock’s job description filtered through his mind. “So, you solve mysteries for a living.”

Sherlock smiled again. “Oh, yes. Murders are the best, although truly creative ones are harder to come by these days.” He sighed dramatically, as if lamenting the lack of criminal ingenuity. John moved on, deciding Sherlock’s misplaced enthusiasm wasn’t going to be fixed anytime soon.

“What were you doing in Port Royal?”

Sherlock brought his hands up in prayer pose again, narrowing his eyes intently while looking over John’s shoulder. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” He paused; long enough that John had to snap his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face to draw his attention. Sherlock shook his head quickly, as if to clear his thoughts, but John was left with the sneaking suspicion that that pause had been significant.

Sherlock carried on in a business-like fashion. “I have long been tracking Moriarty; one of the most notorious criminals operating in the Caribbean today. My sources indicated that Moriarty was looking for something, and that that something could be found in Port Royal. It only made sense that I should make my way to Port Royal, if only to find out what Moriarty was seeking.”

“Why?”

Sherlock scowled at that. “What do you mean, why?”

John scowled right back. Sherlock was the one who had suggested this question and answer session; the least he could do was answer questions with a little bit of courtesy. “I mean, why were you looking for Moriarty.”

Sherlock looked away again, and his jaw showed the tension that was absent from his voice. “Is it relevant?”

John frowned; a trickle of worry working into his mind. Sherlock seemed genuinely upset by this line of questioning, turning his whole body away and staring out to the horizon, hands working nervously on the edges of his coat. There was something very not good behind this evasion, something to do with both of them, Moriarty and Sherlock. But John could tell that pushing would only make Sherlock retreat further. “Not really.” He said lightly, “But if it becomes relevant I would appreciate you letting me know.”

Sherlock turned back, and although his face was impassive John could see a hint of relief in his eyes. He would have appreciated some verbal thanks, but he doubted that Sherlock made such omissions lightly. Sherlock was clearly relieved that the subject was dropped, and that would have to be enough for the moment. 

Sherlock continued despite the increasing tension and awkwardness caused by his explanation. “I had heard that Moriarty was searching for a specific item that he had lost. My sources told me that the person who had found this bit of treasure was in Port Royal, which explains why I was there when I met you. All I had to do was find the person who had what Moriarty was looking for.” At this, Sherlock looked very pointedly at John, as if willing him to understand. 

John furrowed his brow and thought. Who in Port Royal would have something a pirate would want? Surely they would have to have some contact with pirates, or at least unsavory folk, to be connected with the whole business in the first place. Something niggled at the back of his mind, jangling warning bells, but he ignored it.

“John. Moriarty would never have come to Port Royal unless he was absolutely sure that he would find the medallion there. And for that he needed to know that the person who had the medallion was living there as well.”

John’s mind was filled with a roaring sort of sound. Sherlock had said a medallion … a pirate medallion that a very nasty pirate was looking for … it couldn’t be… “But I, it wasn’t, I didn’t!” John was starting to hyper-ventilate, taking in rough breaths as he started to comprehend what he might have done, might have been responsible for. Sherlock’s hands held his shoulders, and he kept up a soothing monologue as John fought to get himself under control.

“John. Shhh. It’s fine John. We’re going to get it back. We’re going to get Mary back. Everything will be fine.” John closed his eyes, shaking his head in denial, but Sherlock’s hand forced his chin up and made him look into those beautiful, insightful eyes. “John. Everything will be fine, but you have to tell me what you know.”

John finally felt the sirens in his mind quiet, leaving a sickly silence in their wake. But Sherlock was right. If he was expecting the truth from Sherlock then Sherlock deserved the same from him. “I was reckless after I got invalided.” John started bluntly. “I took to drinking, mostly to forget why I was home and not with my friends. Friends who had died, might be dying, because I wasn’t there, hadn’t been there, for them.” 

He took a shaky breath and saw Sherlock’s hand dart out, then hover uncertainly above his shoulder. He almost laughed; this must be horribly uncomfortable for a man who seemed to detest showing emotion. He looked up and gave Sherlock a watery smile. Good God he was a mess. But Sherlock seemed to appreciate the gesture, and gave him a tentative smile and motioned for him to continue. 

“I never really cared for drinking, but when one of my uni mates introduced me to gambling … I was hooked.” John wasn’t sure he could communicate the rush the card tables gave him when he first started. Suffice it to say, it was the best adrenaline rush he could get outside of the army. “I became a regular. And I got good, good enough that some people took notice. I, well, they would have tournaments sometimes, all or nothing sorts of matches, and I hadn’t lost a single one. Which is why I played him that night.”

Sherlock had inched closer through the monologue, and was entirely intent on John’s word. “Played who, John?”

“I don’t know. He never said his name, and I never questioned it. No one uses their real name in the game anyway. He was tall though, at least as tall as you. Real built, he looked like he could have been ex-military, blond hair cropped close to the head, real prominent scar on the side of his face. He…” John swallowed; the topic was making him get second-hand chills. “Well, he looked like someone I’d never want to pick a fight against; and that’s saying something.”

Sherlock frowned through this description. Apparently this was not the sort of man he had been expecting, but he gestured impatiently for John to go on. 

“We played a couple rounds. There were quite a few players at the start so some competition had to be weeded out. Eventually it was just him and me in the final, and it came down to one hand. I was sure I had the best hand, but he was acting smug, so,” John winced at his past foolishness. “I told him I’d put everything I had behind the last bet. And he, well…”

John trailed off as memory stole his words. He recalled the smell of liquor and stale sweat, the low lights and haze of smoke as he sat across a dimly lit table from his opponent. The other man hadn’t made any acknowledgement of John’s foolhardy bet except to push his coins across the table to add to the untidy stack. But before the next card was laid the figure had reached into his pocket, and thrown a golden coin, heavy and ornate, onto the pile. _My lucky coin_ , the man had spoken with threat in his voice, _I’d back down if I were you, little soldier_. John hadn’t. And look where he was now.

John shook his head and finished his narrative. “He must have been connected to your Moriarty since he bet that medallion. I should have known then to let it go. He even came up after, made to threaten me; told me I’d be cursed if I didn’t give it back. I didn’t listen, but I suppose I must have had some sense of self-preservation because I left England as soon as I could. Got my things together and never looked back.”

Sherlock was still staring intently but John felt the need to move, so he stood up quickly, pacing back and forth much like Sherlock had in their cell. “It doesn’t make any sense. I lost the damned piece of jewelry! Why on earth would the man still be looking for it? It’s on the bottom of the ocean, for all I care.” 

Sherlock had rose as well, but stood motionless by the helm, eyes tracking John’s movements. “We both know that’s not true, John.”

John shook his head violently. He would not believe it, he refused to believe it. 

Sherlock sighed, and John felt frightened, the most frightened that he had been since that bullet had ripped through his shoulder and left him useless. “Someone else found the medallion, John. Someone close to you; someone who met you when you were still running. You know who has it, John.” 

Yes he did, God help him. John breathed out in a terrified whisper, “Mary.” 

~~~~~~

Perhaps he should have approached the subject in a different manner, Sherlock thought as he watched John try and get a hold of himself. The man had recently suffered a panic attack from a vicious nightmare, and was no doubt still feeling the aftereffects. He should have known better than to approach this sort of topic in such an aggressive manner. 

John walked closer to the railing and leaned out over the edge. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. Hopefully the doctor wasn’t so overwhelmed that he was going to be sick; Sherlock had never been good at dealing with illness in any form. The fact that he had managed to calm the doctor after his nightmare had been nothing short of a miracle. Sherlock shuddered a little as he recalled the desperate noises John had made when in the throes of sleep; no wonder the man had had a psychosomatic limp. Clearly he had suffered greatly during his army days, which made his need for adrenaline all the more puzzling. 

John must have restrained his gag reflex as he moved away from the railing and trailed back to where Sherlock stood. His pale face showed that he had still not gotten over the news that his ill-gotten gain from the poker table had caused Mary to be kidnapped. He felt a twinge of guilt at causing such a reaction, but pushed it away just as quickly. Facts were facts, and coddling John with false truths was not going to help them.

“You lied.” 

Sherlock jerked a bit at that accusation. “I did not!” 

“Yes, you did.” John went on, staring over Sherlock’s shoulder and not quite meeting his eyes. “You said that Moriarty wouldn’t hurt Mary.”

Sherlock almost laughed at that. John got sidetracked over the most ridiculous things. “That’s what has you upset?” Of all the things for John to be upset about this was one of the most manageable. “Don’t worry, John. I told only the truth in that matter.” 

Sherlock’s urge to grin faded abruptly as John met his eye. There, for the first time since meeting the doctor, was the all too familiar hint of disdain; the expression that implied _freak_ as well as saying it. Sherlock’s enthusiasm for the whole conversation withered as he felt a cold spread through his chest. 

“She could be being tortured at this very moment by a man who has no conscience whatsoever, she could even be dead, and you’re telling me not to worry!” John’s voice had risen again, and he was very close to Sherlock, but this time the proximity brought no relief. 

John took a step back, bringing a hand up to his face, and taking in a shuddering breath. “It’s all my fault.” He said, so quietly Sherlock could barely hear it. 

Sherlock felt the cold in his chest thaw a little, and walked over to place a hand on John’s shoulders. He might not be able to empathize, having never had a close friend, but he could remember the feelings of loss and hopelessness enough to know that John needed some reassurance at the moment. 

“Perhaps you should sit John. And eat something, perhaps. Once you’ve calmed down I’ll explain why I’m sure that Mary is safe.” Sherlock gave John a gentle nudge and then turned his back to the wheel once more, after checking their course was secure. It wouldn’t do to lose time on their voyage.

Sherlock turned to see John’s composure back in place, face calm but for the wrinkles of stress across his brow. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to empty his mind of all objective emotions. He couldn’t bring them anywhere near the topic he needed to discuss. Focus. 

John was still staring at him, but his eyes held wary curiosity, not judgment. Sherlock gave a quick nod, and began.

“I’m sure that Mary is safe with Moriarty because the medallion is not the only thing Moriarty wanted to find in Port Royal.”

John seemed to have gotten over his depression enough to follow Sherlock’s train of thought as he dutifully supplied: “What did he want to find then?”

“Me.” Sherlock said simply. John’s surprise swept across his face but Sherlock went on before he could ask more questions. “I’ve been hunting Moriarty for quite some time, and he has been aware of my preoccupation for just as long. It only makes sense that he would make his move sooner rather than later, and my presence in Port Royal no doubt gave him the incentive to escalate.”

John looked confused again, but gamely asked. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Sherlock gave a sigh, but he supposed he couldn’t fault John for being relatively obtuse. “Moriarty wants me to find him. The chase has given him some entertainment, but the only way for Moriarty to be satisfied is if he beats me, face to face.” Sherlock felt a tremor of fear and anticipation work its way into his skull. No. Focus. 

“He wants to kill you.” John said, surety coloring his tone. Sherlock gave a shake of his head at that.

“No. He wants to _burn_ me.” He couldn’t suppress his shiver or the feeling of hollow dread at his core. 

John stared silently at Sherlock, his face a blank calm that, for once, Sherlock wasn’t feeling. It was fine for John to fall prey to emotions; after all, he was normal to a certain extent. But for Sherlock to be caught in the uncertain realm of feeling with John as an objective outsider was unacceptable. _Focus_ , he told himself again, and went on. 

“This is why I am sure Moriarty will not hurt Mary. He wants me to follow him, but the introduction of a person as bait means I will have to confront him more directly in order to win. Mary would serve no purpose dead, therefore she is still living.”

“No purpose.” John’s tone was flat, but Sherlock resisted looking at his face. Even he knew that what he had said about John’s friend had been not good. _It was the truth_ , Sherlock thought a bit desperately, _surely John would prefer the truth?_

John stood abruptly. Sherlock stared off to the side, avoiding eye contact. He was sure that he would not like what he would see in John’s eyes. 

“Thank you.” 

Sherlock felt his neck protest as his head whipped around and up, looking at John with blatant shock. “What?”

John’s posture showed the strain he had been through recently, but his face was calm, almost serene, as he gazed down at Sherlock. “Thank you for telling the truth.” John’s mouth almost twitched in a smile. “You didn’t do the best job of presenting it, but I’m glad you shared anyway.”

 _He’s perfect_ , whispered a corner of Sherlock’s stunned mind.

“So. We’re going after a mad pirate who wants both of us dead, or worse in your case, to rescue a woman you’ve met a total of two minutes?” 

Sherlock felt lightheaded and his stomach was suddenly unsettled. He vaguely hoped he wasn’t feeling the beginnings of a cold, but most of his mind was blissfully, and shockingly, blank. He nodded slowly as John’s statement filtered through his mind. 

“That’s all I need to know.” John smiled, gentle and steady in his trust. “I’m with you in this, Sherlock.” John’s sincerity rang through his statement, adding gravity to the simple words. Sherlock felt his stomach flutter again, and wondered what had caused this abrupt turn in John’s loyalty. 

John grinned at Sherlock before going on. “It would be great if you could teach me something about sailing. I don’t know about you, but I’d love to catch up on Moriarty’s lead.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything against that.

~~~~~~

**Day Two**

There is not a single bit of my body that doesn’t ache. Honestly, I had never thought sailing a ship would be much work. Sherlock had me running all over today, pulling ropes, hauling crates, hell, I even tried to climb into the lower rigging before he declared me entirely hopeless. 

Sherlock certainly knows what he’s doing on a boat. He said he’s only occasionally a pirate, but if that’s true, well, maybe sailing is his hobby. We’ve been moving fast and, according to him, on course. He says we’ll make port tomorrow morning.

I tried asking about how he was navigating, since I’ve not seen him with a compass or map. He said the sun and weather conditions were enough to get him to where he needed to be. I had the nerve to ask him what he navigated by at night and was treated to a monumental rant about “sailor’s inability to distinguish direction without a bit of wood pointing their way.” 

I brought up using the North Star and Sherlock gave me a blank stare. I’m debating the results of introducing stellar navigating against the risk of another rant.

Sherlock seemed a bit nervous all day. Probably because of our talk this morning. For a man who likes to explain his reasoning he sure dislikes discussing anything to do with personal matters. I wonder if that’s the result of self-preservation, or if he just doesn’t like personal discussions. I’d guess a bit of both.

I must say I’m impressed with myself. I never thought I’d get the last word with the wanker, but he was stunned silent for a good ten minutes after I told him I’d follow his lead. He probably expected me to be angry. Hell, I was angry. The git drags me around the past couple of days and then says Mary’s collateral damage. 

Except that’s not what he said, not exactly. 

I’m glad I had a chance to think about his words. It’s going to be difficult with Sherlock, because I’ll have to read between the lines and then get out a magnifying glass and dictionary to understand what he really means, but I think it will be worth it. 

He said that he was the reason Moriarty kidnapped Mary, because Moriarty wanted to get to him. Mary was bait, to lure Sherlock in for their final duel, or whatever he’s expecting in his over-dramatic mind. But then I thought, why would Mary be bait?

Sherlock doesn’t know Mary, doesn’t even like her, judging by his interaction with her in jail. He hadn’t even seen her before that encounter. So why would Moriarty hold an almost complete stranger hostage?

The key was Sherlock’s insistence that Mary is alive. Moriarty needs her alive because he needs Sherlock close, needs Sherlock invested. He needs Mary alive because Sherlock needs to rescue a live person, not a dead one. Sherlock would risk his life, risk getting near to a man that terrifies him (and no matter what Sherlock says, I saw the fear in his eyes when he talked about Moriarty burning him). And he’s doing it because he wants to keep Mary living, to rescue someone before they’re beyond the point of help.

And if Sherlock’s worst enemy knows him well enough to take a live person instead of leaving a trail of interesting corpses, well, I’ll bet that Sherlock’s shown this tendency before. He may say he’s the consulting detective, in it for the mystery, but he places enough importance on a total stranger’s life to risk his own.

Wanting to stop people from dying is basic stuff, of course. It’s obvious why I’m pursuing Moriarty, for example. But for Sherlock to admit that he’s following because Mary needs to be rescued… Well, it says something about him that I can’t dismiss. 

I’m glad to have some sort of proof that Sherlock Holmes is, in fact, human.

The git’s sleeping again. I wonder if he’ll ever admit any sort of weakness. He complained bitterly about every drop of water I got him to swallow and whined about taking a break, but as soon as I took the wheel from him he dropped like a log and has been snoring in my pile of blankets ever since. 

He looks younger when he’s asleep, more peaceful and open. 

The stars were beautiful tonight, but I’m sure if I mentioned them Sherlock would scoff and accuse me of harboring sentiment for inanimate objects. But the North Star is practical for sailors; perhaps I will bring it up, if only to see his reaction. 

Sun’s coming up. I’d better stow this and wake him.


End file.
